ATLANTIC  NARRATIVES 

Modern  Short  Stories 


EDITED  WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 

CHARLES  SWAIN  THOMAS,  M  M. 

Head  of  Department  of  English,  Newton  (Mass.)  High  School 
Lecturer  in  the  Harvard  Summer  School 


Atlantic 

BOSTON 


Copyright,  1918,  by 
THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY  PRESS,  INC. 


CONTENTS 


INTRODUCTION    .... 
THE  PRELIMINARIES     .     . 

BUTTERCUP-NlGHT    .        .        . 

HEPATICAS     ..... 
J  POSSESSING  PRUDENCE 
THE  GLORY-BOX     .     .     . 
THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  HERD 
IN  THE  PASHA'S  GARDEN  . 
LITTLE  SELVES  .... 
THE  FAILURE     .... 
BUSINESS  is  BUSINESS 
NOTHING 
A  MOTH  OF  PEACE  . 


Cornelia  A. 


LITTLE  BROTHER 
WHAT  ROAD  GOETH  HE?  . 
THE  CLEARER  SIGHT  .  . 
THE  GARDEN  OF  MEMORIES 
THE  CLEAREST  VOICE  .  . 
THE  MARBLE  CHILD  .  . 
THE  ONE  LEFT  .... 
/THE  LEGACY  OF  RICHARD 
HUGHES  ..... 
OF  WATER  AND  THE  SPIRIT 


John~Galsworthy  !  .  .  . 
Anne  Douglas  Sedgwick  .  . 
Amy  Wentworth  Stone  .  . 
Elizabeth  Ashe  .... 
Dallas  Lore  Sharp  .  .  . 

H.  G.  Dwight 

Mary  Lerner 

Charles  Caldwell  Dobie  .  . 
Henry  Seidel  Canby  .  .  . 
Zephine  Humphrey  .  .  v  . 
Katharine  Fullerton  Gerould . 
Katharine  Butler  .  .  .  . 
Madeleine  Z .  Doty  .  .  . 

F.  J.  Louriet 

Ernest  Starr 

C.  A.  Mercer 

Margaret  Sherwood    .     . 

E.  Nesbit 

E.  V.  Lucas    . 


Margaret  Jjynn     ... 
Margaret  Prescott  Montague 


MR.  SQUEM Arthur  Russell  Taylor 

BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  INTERPRETATIVE  NOTES 


PAGE 

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22  u-' 
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180  *• 
201 Y 
20S 
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227   v- 
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270 
,     283 

,     290 

310 
.     326* — 

337 


INTRODUCTION 

THE  SHORT  STORY 

THERE  is  a  story  current  among  companionable  golfers 
of  a  countryman  who  reluctantly  accepted  an  invitation 
from  a  group  of  friendly  associates  to  try  his  unpracticed 
hand  at  golf.  When  they  all  arrived  at  the  links,  his 
friends  carefully  placed  the  little  carbonadoed  sphere  upon 
the  tee,  and  told  their  aged  neophyte  that  he  must  try 
to  send  this  little  painted  ball  to  the  first  hole  —  plainly 
marked  by  the  distant  waving  red  flag  toward  which  they 
pointed.  The  stalwart  old  man  swung  his  club  valiantly, 
hit  the  golf-ball  a  square,  ringing  blow,  and  watched  it 
eagerly  as  it  made  its  long,  swift  flight  toward  the  far-off 
putting-green.  His  three  friends,  all  loudly  congratu 
lating  him  upon  his  stroke,  went  with  him  in  his  silent 
search  for  the  ball.  Finally  they  found  it  lying  just  three 
or  four  inches  from  the  edge  of  the  first  hole.  A  look  of 
exultant  astonishment  was  upon  their  faces;  a  look  of 
keen  disappointment  upon  the  face  of  the  old  man.  "  Gee, 
I  missed  it, "  he  muttered  in  disgust.  His  stroke  had  been 
the  traditional  stroke  of  the  ignorant  lucky  beginner;  he 
had  unwittingly  accomplished  a  feat  beyond  the  dream  of 
the  trained  expert. 

Something  similar  to  this  triumphant  accomplishment 
of  the  golf  links  has  occasionally  happened  in  the  realm  of 
story-telling.  An  untrained  narrator,  with  a  good  tale  to 
tell  and  with  a  natural  instinct  to  select  the  dramatic  in 
cidents  and  arrange  them  luckily  in  effective  sequence,  has 
held  his  hearers  in  continuously  rapt  attention,  and  won 
from  them,  at  the  close  of  his  story,  round  upon  round  of 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

spontaneous  applause.  But  as  the  literary  world  has 
grown  older  and  more  mature  in  its  {esthetic  judgments, 
it  has  naturally  grown  more  exacting.  As  narrator  after 
narrator  has  told  his  stories,  the  critical  public  and  the 
academic  critics  have  come  to  impose  certain  definite 
technical  demands  —  demands  not  so  definite  or  so  ex 
acting,  however,  that  the  splendor  of  success  in  certain 
ways  has  not  pardoned  even  rather  glaring  neglects  and 
defects  along  certain  other  concurrent  ways. 

Now  it  has  been  my  pleasant  task  during  the  recent 
months  to  read  or  to  reread  scores  upon  scores  of  short 
stories  that  have  been  published  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly. 
My  object  has  been  to  select  from  the  Atlantic  files  some 
of  the  best  and  most  representative  of  these  narratives 
for  publication  in  book  form,  and  thus  make  these  signifi 
cant  stories  more  readily  available  for  the  college,  school, 
and  the  reading  public.  Out  of  this  study,  as  it  has  com 
bined  and  recombined  with  all  my  impressions  of  past  read 
ings,  have  come  certain  convictions  that  have  grown  more 
persistent  as  the  reading  and  the  selecting  have  pro 
gressed. 

The  net  result  of  this  thinking,  I  may  at  the  beginning 
assert,  has  been  to  expand  and  liberalize  my  convictions 
concerning  the  art  and  technique  of  short-story  writing. 
The  choice  of  theme  is  multitudinous,  the  methods  of 
allowable  treatment  generously  variable,  the  emphasis 
upon  character,  plot,  and  setting  easily  shiftable,  and  the 
ultimate  effects  as  diversified  as  our  human  moods  and 
interests.  Contrary  to  a  currently  repeated  assertion, 
there  is,  I  am  convinced,  no  strict  Atlantic  type  of  story  — 
at  least  none  so  rigorously  conceived  as  not  to  allow  un 
questioned  commendation  of  the  narrative  art  of  such 
varied  personalities  as  Bret  Harte,  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich, 
Sarah  Orne  Jewett,  John  Galsworthy,  Mrs.  Comer,  Mrs. 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

Gerould,  E.  Nesbit,  Jack  London,  or  indeed  that  whole 
luminous  galaxy  of  skilled  story  writers  —  many  of  them 
without  fame  — who  for  the  past  sixty  years  have  been 
contributing  the  best  of  their  literary  selves  to  the  Atlantic. 
Yet  a  study  of  these  contributions  of  such  varied  types 
convinces  one  of  certain  large  demands  which  each  suc 
cessive  editor  has,  with  somewhat  latitudinarian  rigor, 
pretty  positively  held  in  mind  while  he  was  determining 
the  worth  of  the  given  product.  What,  we  may  be  inter 
ested  in  asking,  are  these  larger  and  more  persistent 
demands? 

The  unified  impression 

Perhaps  the  most  obvious  requirement  is  that  one  upon 
which  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  in  his  brilliant  critical  essays  on 
the  art  of  the  short  story,  laid  the  strongest  stress  —  the 
demand  that  the  narrator  produce  an  unquestioned  uni 
fied  effect  or  impression.     An  examination  of  the  narra 
tive  method  of  the  old  Metrical  Romances  and  of  many 
of  the  Arabian  Nights  Tales  will  by  contrast  illustrate 
Poe's  comment.     In  those  writings  there  was  often  no 
apparent  plan.     The  hero  started  out  and  had  an  adven 
ture.     This  the  story-teller  narrated  as  Episode  No.  1. 
The  hero  continued  and  had  another  adventure,  similar 
or  dissimilar  to  the  first.     This  we  recognize  as  Episode 
No.  2.     And  thus  the  story  continued  until  the  narrator's 
powers  of  invention  or  endurance  were  exhausted.     We 
close  the  reading  with  no  sense  of  satisfied  unity  —  no 
oneness  of  impression.     At  the  beginning  of  the  story, 
the  writer  of  these  Romances  and  Tales  apparently  had 
no  definitely  preconceived  plan,  he  allowed  no  foreshad 
owing  of  catastrophe,  he  was  careless  alike  of  both  begin 
ning  and  end,  he  made  no  conscious  use  of  suspense, 
setting,  character-contrast,  reverting  narrative,  climax,  or 


x  INTRODUCTION 

any  of  the  numerous  devices  that  make  up  the  technique 
of  modern  short-story  writing.  More  particularly  did  he 
ignore  the  principle  of  unified  impression. 

Unified  impression  secured  by  character  domination 
While  unity  of  impression  is  the  sovereign  demand  in 
the  modern  short  story,  the  ways  in  which  this  impression 
may  be  secured  possess  interesting  variety.  One  of  the 
most  important  of  these  ways  is  evident  in  the  pervading 
or  directing  influence  of  some  strongly  dominant  charac 
ter.  Events  move  in  accordance  with  the  will  of  some 
one  person  —  or,  it  may  be  some  group  of  persons  with 
closely  related  powers  and  aims. 

An  interesting  example  of  single  character  domination  is 
seen  in  Miss  Sherwood's  story,  The  Clearest  Voice.  Alice, 
the  wife,  has  been  dead  five  years,  yet  it  is  her  personality 
that  still  pervades  and  governs  the  home.  Her  spirit  of 
kindly  interest,  her  instinct  for  the  aesthetic,  her  house 
hold  control  —  all  these  have  persisted  through  the  long 
months  that  have  intervened  since  her  death.  But  it  is 
when  the  husband  is  faced  by  the  temptation  to  accept  an 
inheritance  which  legally,  though  not  justly,  belongs  to 
him  — it  is  then  that  the  influence  of  the  wife's  assertive 
character  silently  and  determinedly  dictates  the  correct 
decision.  The  husband's  pressing  financial  difficulties,  the 
urgings  of  the  relatives,  the  unquestioned  legality  of  the 
bequest  —  these  are  all  finally  swept  aside  by  the  subtle 
workings  of  a  quietly  persisting  ethical  force. 

Sometimes  an  author  reveals  the  strength  and  wisdom 
of  one  of  his  characters  by  allowing  this  character  to  yield 
to  the  wisdom  and  domination  of  another.  I  am  think 
ing  of  Mrs.  Comer's  story,  The  Wealth  of  Timmy  Zimmer 
man.1  As  we  read  the  first  part  of  this  narrative,  we  are 

1  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  vol.  113,  p.  733. 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

interested  only  in  Timmy  Zimmerman  and  the  personal 
character  problems  which  the  huge  profits  of  the  tobacco 
trust  suddenly  thrust  upon  this  uncultured  but  good- 
souled  parvenu.  We  watch  him  in  his  early  struggles  so 
full  of  energy  and  bold  emprise;  we  rejoice  with  him  in 
his  significant  financial  triumphs,  and  later  we  watch  him 
as  he  tries,  by  an  expensive  building  enterprise,  by  tours 
through  Europe,  by  the  rapid  and  careless  driving  of  his 
ten-thousand  dollar  red  automobile,  to  win  back  the  nerv 
ous  contentment  that  was  the  happy  companion  of  those 
early  years  of  adventurous  poverty.  He  dominates  each 
separate  situation,  but  he  does  not  solve  his  problem.  It 
is  only  when  he  meets  Molly  Betterton  and  sees  himself 
as  analyzed  by  her  candid  native  acumen,  that  he  learns 
his  own  weakness  and  the  true  potentialities  of  his  wealth. 
Her  character  is  strong  enough  to  win  dominion  over  him; 
it  is  not  strong  enough  to  dominate  the  story  and  lure  the 
reader  away  from  the  controlling  interest  in  the  person 
ality  whose  career  the  reader  has  so  intently  watched. 
The  unity  of  impression  is  firmly  and  continuously  cen 
tered  in  the  portrayal  of  Timmy  Zimmerman's  character, 
and  it  is  that  which  tautly  holds  the  reader's  attention 
in  leash. 

A  more  recent  story  that  secures  its  chief  interest  from 
character  portrayal  is  Mr.  Arthur  Russell  Taylor's  Mr. 
Squem.  Mr.  Squem  is  a  traveling  man  who  sells  Mer 
cury  rubber  tires.  He  wears  clothes  that  arrest  attention 
—  broad  striped  affairs  that  seemed  stripes  before  they 
were  clothes;  his  talk  is  profusely  interlarded  with  vulgar 
but  picturesque  slang;  he  is  far  removed  from  the  academy. 
Brought  into  direct  contrast  with  the  Reverend  Allan  Dare 
and  Professor  William  Emory  Browne,  his  crudity  is  the 
more  grossly  apparent.  It  is  later  enhanced  by  the  glimpse 
we  get  of  his  room  —  'extremely  dennish,  smitingly  red  as 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

to  walls,  oppressive  with  plush  upholstery.  A  huge  deer- 
head,  jutting  from  over  the  mantel,  divided  honors  with 
a  highly-colored  September  Morn,  affrontingly  framed. 
On  a  shelf  stood  a  small  bottle.  It  contained  a  finger  of 
Mr.  Squem,  amputated  years  before,  in  alcohol.' 

But  in  the  midst  of  a  railroad  wreck,  we  lose  all  thought 
of  these  banalities  and  crudities;  we  take  Mr.  Squem  for 
what  he  really  is  —  a  genuine,  large-hearted,  efficient 
minister  unto  his  fellow  men.  The  impression  he  creates 
dominates  the  entire  situation. 

Of  the  classic  stories  which  admirably  illustrate  this 
method  of  securing  a  unity  of  impression  through  con 
centrated  character  interest,  we  like  to  revert  to  Bret 
Harte's  Tennessee's  Partner.  It  is  of  small  moment  that 
we  do  not  know  this  man's  name  —  of  small  moment  in 
deed  that  he  seems,  throughout  his  mining  career  at  Sandy 
Bar,  to  have  been  content  to  have  his  personality  dimmed 
by  the  somewhat  more  luminous  aura  of  Tennessee.  But 
when  Tennessee's  repeated  offences  bring  him  to  trial 
before  Judge  Lynch,  and  finally  to  his  doom  on  the  om 
inous  tree  at  the  top  of  Morley's  Hill,  Tennessee's  partner 
comes  suddenly  upon  the  scene  and  overpoweringly  domi 
nates  the  situation.  We  close  our  reading  of  the  story 
completely  impressed  by  the  devoted  loyalty  of  Tennes 
see's  partner  —  the  loyalty  that  creates  the  unified  im 
pression. 

And  this  same  unity  of  impression  thus  secured  in  The 
Clearest  Voice,  The  Wealth  of  Timmy  Zimmerman,  Mr. 
Squem,  and  Tennessee's  Partner  by  concentrated  interest 
in  character,  is  easily  discernible,  in  scores  of  other  stories. 
The  method  is  artistically  employed  by  Hawthorne  in 
The  Great  Stone  Face,  in  Maxim  Gorky's  Tchelkache,  Tur- 
genef's  A  Lear  of  the  Steppes,  J.  M.  Barrie's  Cree  Queery 
and  Myra  Drolby,  Thomas  Nelson  Page's  Marse  Chan, 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

Henry  James's  The  Real  Thing,  Joseph  Conrad's  The  In 
former,  and  such  well-known  Atlantic  stories  as  Anna 
Fuller's  The  Boy,  Esther  Tiffany's  Anna  Mareea,  Flor 
ence  Gilmore's  Little  Brother,  Ellen  Mackubin's  Rosiia, 
Charles  Dobie's  The  Failure,  Clarkson  Crane's  Snipe,  and 
Christina  Krysto's  Babanchik.  Indeed  the  list  is  well-nigh 
inexhaustible,  and  is  constantly  being  increased  by  the 
many  gifted  writers  who,  enriching  our  current  literature, 
see  in  personal  character  the  germ  of  story-interest. 

Unified  impression  secured  by  plot 

Just  as  in  looking  at  a  finished  piece  of  artistic  tapestry 
we  get  a  sense  of  harmonious  design,  so  in  contemplating 
the  events  of  a  well-told  story,  our  sense  of  artistic  com 
pleteness  is  satisfied  by  the  skill  displayed  in  the  weaving 
and  interweaving  of  incident  —  such  weaving  and  inter 
weaving  as  bring  the  significant  events  into  the  immediate 
foreground,  and  group  the  items  of  lesser  moment  in  such 
an  unobtrusive  manner  as  to  merge  them  into  harmony 
with  the  main  design. 

Preceding  the  beginning  of  any  story,  we  assume  the 
existence  of  a  state  of  repose.  Either  there  is  nothing  hap 
pening,  or,  if  events  are  happening,  they  are  simply  happen 
ing  in  the  atmosphere  of  dull  and  inconsequential  routine, 
and  are  accordingly  without  the  pale  of  narratable  notice. 
Then,  suddenly,  or  gradually,  something  happens  to  dis 
turb  this  repose;  and  to  this  initial  exciting  force  are  trace 
able  the  succeeding  events,  with  such  varied  culminations 
as  prosperity,  or  poverty,  or  dejection,  tragedy  or  joy,  or 
restored  calm,  or  any  one  of  the  multitudinous  finalities 
that  life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage. 

The  whole  principle  of  plot,  as  here  briefly  analyzed,  is 
simply  and  artistically  revealed  in  Mr.  Ernest  Starr's  The 
Clearer  Sight  —  an  admirable  example  of  a  story  whose 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

unity  is  secured  largely  by  the  effective  handling  of  situa 
tion  and  incident.  To  Noakes,  the  young  scientist  who  is 
the  central  character  in  the  story,  the  master  chemist, 
Henry  Maxineff,  has  given  certain  general  suggestions  for 
a  formula  which  will  give  an  explosive  of  great  value  and 
of  high  potential  power.  The  young  man,  following  these 
general  lines,  discovers  that,  by  slight  additions  and  altera 
tions,  he  can  successfully  work  out  the  formula  and  im 
mediately  sell  his  secret  to  a  foreign  government.  The 
sum  he  would  thus  secure  would  amply  justify  him  in  pro 
posing  marriage  to  Becky  Hallam,  the  girl  of  his  choice. 
We  watch  him  in  his  brisk  experiments  and  in  his  conclu 
sive  yielding  to  the  temptation.  We  see  him  betraying 
his  employer  and  at  the  same  time  failing  to  meet  the  stand 
ard  of  confidence  WA  ich  is  demanded  by  the  girl  he  loves. 
Right  in  the  midst  of  these  scientific  successes  and  these 
ethical  failures  comes  the  terrible  explosion  in  the  labora 
tory  where  Noakes  was  working  in  secret.  He  is  blinded 
by  the  accident  —  permanently,  he  thinks.  Harassed  by 
his  sufferings  —  more  particularly  by  his  spiritual  suffer 
ings  —  he  makes  his  confessions  to  Mr.  Maxineff  and  Miss 
Hallam,  and  looks  despairingly  toward  the  empty  future. 
The  story  closes  with  the  physician's  hope  that  the  loss  of 
his  sight  is  after  all  but  temporary.  As  we  end  our  read 
ing  and  view  the  events  in  retrospect,  we  are  conscious  of 
having  seen  the  various  threads  of  interest  woven  into  a 
complete  and  unified  design. 

Again,  the  principles  of  plot  structure  are  clearly  seen 
quietly  creating  their  unified  impression  in  A  Sea  Change, 
one  of  Alice  Brown's  homely  stories.1  Cynthia  Miller,  a 
New  England  housewife,  had  lived  for  years  her  life  of  dull 
routine  in  an  isolated  mountain  farm  eight  miles  from  the 
nearest  village.  Her  husband,  Timothy,  'was  a  son  of  the 

1  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  vol.  86,  p.  180. 


INTRODUCTION 


xv 


soil,  made  out  of  the  earth,  and  not  many  generations  re 
moved  from  that  maternity.'  Cynthia  gradually  comes 
to  despise  her  life  and  her  husband's  crude  carelessness  — 
exemplified  by  his  habitual  animal  aura  and  his  newly- 
greased  boots  by  the  open  oven  door.  With  little  ado, 
but  with  grim  determination,  she  leaves  him  and  goes  to 
the  sea-side  home  of  her  sister  Frances.  Cynthia  is  taken 
ill,  but  is  at  length  cured  by  the  kindly  village  doctor  and 
the  silent  ministrations  of  the  neighboring  sea.  Timothy, 
changed  by  the  sudden  departure  of  his  wife  and  the  op 
portunity  for  introspection  that  his  lonely  life  now  brings 
him,  shakes  off  a  bit  of  his  earthiness  and  goes,  after  sev 
eral  weeks,  to  find  his  wife.  We  listen  to  the  brief  recon 
ciliation  and  see  Timothy  begin  to  breathe  in  new  life  of 
aroused  love  and  appreciation.  The  author's  skillful  man 
ipulation  of  the  action  makes  us  live  in  the  glow  of  a 
clearly  perceived  oneness  of  impression. 

There  are,  of  course,  thousands  of  stories  which  secure 
this  singleness  of  effect  by  a  similar  skill  in  the  handling  of 
situations  and  incidents.  Among  these  many  we  need 
mention  only  a  few  whose  unity  is  largely  secured  by  plot- 
interest  —  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich's  Marjorie  Daw,  Mau 
passant's  The  Necklace,  Foe's  Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue, 
Stockton's  A  Tale  of  Negative  Gravity  and  The  Lady  or  the 
Tiger,  Kipling's  Without  Benefit  of  Clergy,  Pushkin's  The 
Shot,  A.  Conan  Doyle's  The  Adventures  of  Sherlock  Holmes, 
and  Jack  London's  A  Day's  Lodging. 

Unified  impression  secured  by  setting 

Perhaps  the  most  significant  critical  comment  on  setting 
—  the  third  important  element  in  the  story- weaving  proc 
ess  that  secures  oneness  of  impression  —  is  that  frequently 
quoted  conversation  of  Stevenson  with  Graham  Balfour: 
'You  may,'  said  Stevenson,  'take  a  certain  atmosphere  and 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

get  action  and  persons  to  express  it.  I'll  give  you  an  ex 
ample  —  The  Merry  Men.  There  I  began  with  the  feeling 
of  one  of  those  islands  on  the  west  coast  of  Scotland,  and  I 
gradually  developed  the  story  to  express  the  sentiment 
with  which  the  coast  affected  me.' 

There  is  no  sensitive  reader  who  will  not  sympathize 
with  this  feeling  and  immediately  understand  how  the 
atmosphere  of  a  particular  place  will  act  upon  inventive 
genius  and  become  the  exciting  force  for  the  production  of 
a  story.  The  squalid  surroundings  in  the  city  slums,  the 
gay  glamour  of  a  garishly-lighted  casino,  the  unending 
stretch  of  desert  waste,  the  dim  twilight  or  the  shrouded 
darkness  of  the  pine  forest,  the  bleakness  of  the  beaches  in 
midwinter,  the  sounding  cataracts,  haunting  one  like  a 
passion  —  how  rich  in  storied  suggestiveness  may  be  each 
of  these  to  him  who  already  has  within  him  the  instinct  of 
story  or  romance. 

How  the  mood  of  place  may  effect  its  influence  is  well 
expressed  in  the  opening  passages  of  John  Galsworthy's 
Buttercup-Night,  which  sensitively  analyzes  the  feelings 
for  an  unnamed  bit  of  land  in  the  'West  country'  as  the 
author  experienced  them  one  Sunday  night  of  a  by-gone 
early  June. 

'Why  is  it  that  in  some  places  there  is  such  a  feeling 
of  life  being  all  one;  not  merely  a  long  picture-show 
for  human  eyes,  but  a  single  breathing,  glowing,  grow 
ing  thing,  of  which  we  are  no  more  important  a  part 
than  the  swallows  and  magpies,  the  foals  and  sheep 
in  the  meadows,  the  sycamores  and  ash  trees  and 
flowers  in  the  fields,  the  rocks  and  little  bright  streams, 
or  even  the  long  fleecy  clouds  and  their  soft-shouting 
drivers,  the  winds? 

'  True,  we  register  these  parts  of  being,  and  they  — 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

so  far  as  we  know  —  do  not  register  us;  yet  it  is  im 
possible  to  feel,  in  such  places  as  I  speak  of,  the  busy, 
dry,  complacent  sense  of  being  all  that  matters,  which 
in  general  we  humans  have  so  strongly. 

'In  these  rare  spots,  that  are  always  in  the  remote 
country,  untouched  by  the  advantages  of  civiliza 
tion,  one  is  conscious  of  an  enwrapping  web  or  mist 
of  spirit,  the  glamorous  and  wistful  wraith  of  all  the 
vanished  shapes  that  once  dwelt  there  in  such  close 
comradeship/ 

We  can  readily  see,  as  we  read  Buttercup-Night,  that  it 
is  the  atmosphere  of  the  place  that  subtly  dictates  the  tell 
ing  of  the  story,  and  at  the  end  leaves  the  reader  breathing 
this  delicious  June  air  and  living  within  the  charmed  ro 
mance  of  this  accumulated  mass  of  magical  yellow.  What 
happens  is  interesting,  but  it  is  interesting  largely  because 
the  incidents  are  fused  and  integrated  with  the  hovering 
spirit  of  place  and  time  —  here  as  dominating  in  their  charm 
as  is  the  weird,  mysterious  Usher  homestead  in  its  gloom. 

While  such  stories  as  Stevenson's  Merry  Men  and  Gals 
worthy's  Buttercup-Night  and  Poe's  The  Fall  of  the  House 
of  Usher  illustrate  in  a  particularly  striking  way  the  dom 
inant  influence  of  setting,  we  recall  scores  upon  scores  of 
stories  that  have  an  added  power  because  their  authors 
have  shown  skill  in  the  creation  of  a  permeating  and  direct 
ing  environment.  Among  the  more  famous  of  these 'stories 
are  Sarah  Orne  Jewett's  The  Queen's  Twin,1  Israel  Zang- 
will's  They  that  Walk  in  Darkness,  Prosper  Merimee's 
Mateo  Falcone,  Hardy's  Wessex  Tales,  Lafcadio  Hearn's 
Youma,1  Jack  London's  Children  of  the  Frost,  John  Fox's 
Christmas  Eve  on  Lonesome,  Edith  Wyatt's  In  November,1 
and  Mrs.  Gerould's  The  Moth  of  Peace. l 

1  Atlantic  stories. 


xviii  INTRODUCTION 

Unified  impression  secured  by  theme 

Another  element  of  the  story  which  we  find  interesting 
to  discover  and  analyze  is  the  author's  dominant  theme  — 
what  in  the  older  days  we  might  have  unapologetically 
called  the  moral  of  the  story.  But  along  with  the  develop 
ment  of  the  technique  of  the  short  story,  there  came  a 
school  of  critics  and  writers  that  shied  terribly  at  this  men 
tion  of  the  word  moral;  and  such  writers  as  Stevenson 
often  seemed  over-conscious  of  its  lurking  danger.  In 
such  consciousness,  Stevenson  wrote  wonderful  stories  of 
adventure  and  mystery,  such  as  Treasure  Island  and  The 
Sire  de  Maletroifs  Door.  Yet  the  native  instinct  toward 
emphasis  upon  theme  allowed  him  to  write  such  power 
ful  ethical  stories  as  Markheim  and  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr. 
Hyde.  But  in  these,  as  in  most  of  the  modern  thematic 
stories,  the  ethical  truth  pervades  rather  than  intrudes. 
It  is  so  firmly  woven  into  incident  and  character  and  sur 
roundings  and  natural  dramaturgy  that  its  identity  is  not 
exposed  to  naked  bareness,  but  combines  with  other  ele 
ments  to  produce  a  perfect  unity  through  harmony  of  tone 
and  effect. 

Among  the  recent  Atlantic  story- writers  this  harmonious 
linking  is  seen  happily  existent  in  the  deft  workmanship  of 
Mrs.  C.  A.  P.  Comer  and  Anne  Douglas  Sedgwick.  In 
each  number  of  three  notable  trilogies  which  these  gifted 
writers  have  contributed,  there  is  an  artistic  treatment  of 
three  notable  themes.  In  Mrs.  Comer's  Preliminaries,  The 
Kinzer  Portraits,  and  The  Long  Inheritance  we  find  the 
author's  implied  comments  on  Engagement,  Marriage,  and 
Divorce.  In  Anne  Douglas  Sedgwick's  unconnected  floral 
trilogy  —  Hepaticas,  Carnations,  and  Pansies  —  there  is 
in  turn  reflected  Miss  Sedgwick's  attitude  toward  three 
themes  which  are  less  concrete  and  which  demand  a  longer 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

phrasing.  In  the  first  there  is  the  world-old  story  of  a 
noble  spirited  woman's  love  and  sacrifice  and  ardent  wish- 
ings  for  her  self -victimized  son.  In  Carnations  we  have 
the  story  of  a  husband,  Rupert  Wilson,  released  from  the 
bondage  of  an  unfortunate  infatuation  and  restored  to  the 
sanity  of  love.  In  Pansies  we  have  a  generous  tribute  to 
quiet  sentiment,  developed  by  a  study  in  character  con 
trasts  —  the  simple-hearted  woman,  loving  a  simple  gar 
den,  contrasted  with  the  kindly  disposed  but  worldly- 
environed  Mrs.  Lennard,  fond  of  display  and  Dorothy 
Perkins  effects,  and  laying  a  disproportioned  stress  upon 
the  expensive  and  the  modern. 

In  none  of  these  six  stories  is  there  the  slightest  sugges 
tion  that  the  narrative  has  been  conceived  in  the  spirit  of 
propaganda.  It  would  be  impossible  to  say  even  that  it 
was  the  underlying  theme  which  gave  the  initial  conception 
to  the  narrative  and  directed  its  progress.  Any  one  of 
these  six  stories  I  can  fancy  beginning  in  plot,  or  in  char 
acter,  or  in  setting.  Plot,  character,  setting,  and  theme 
—  all  are  here,  but  all  are  so  happily  combined  that  I  feel 
no  disproportionate  emphasis,  and  hence  no  forcing  of  a 
technical  element.  I  only  know  that,  personally,  when  I 
think  over  these  stories,  I  find  the  theme  of  each  leaving 
its  strong  and  lingering  impression. 

What  is  true  regarding  this  effective  combination  of 
elements  in  these  stories  of  Mrs.  Comer's  and  Miss  Sedg- 
wick's  is  of  course  true  of  many  of  the  Atlantic  stories 
which  I  have  been  reading.  Perhaps  in  the  majority  of 
the  best  there  is  such  a  thorough  merging  of  all  the 
elements  that  the  final  impression  falls  upon  neither  char 
acter  nor  plot  nor  setting  nor  theme.  The  author  has  had 
something  worth  while  to  relate,  and  he  has  related  it  in  a 
simple  and  natural  way,  —  all  unconscious  of,  or  happily 
triumphant  over,  any  studied  technique  in  the  art  of  nar- 


xx  INTRODUCTION 

ration.  It  has  indeed  been  a  conviction  in  the  minds  of 
some  of  the  Atlantic  editors  that  most  persons,  even  though 
untrained  in  manipulating  the  story-maker's  gear,  have  at 
least  one  experience  —  real  or  imagined  —  that  is  abun 
dantly  worth  telling  and  worth  writing.  Unconsciously 
of  course  this  artless  narrator  might  throw  into  bold  relief 
theme,  character,  setting,  or  plot.  Or  he  might  uncon 
sciously  merge  these  separate  interests. 

The  woman  writers 

Aside  from  the  mere  contemplation  of  story-element 
technique,  there  are  many  other  interesting  observations 
which  naturally  come  to  one  who  reads  critically  the  cur 
rently  published  fiction.  He  who  examines  the  recent 
Atlantic  files  will  be  immediately  impressed  by  the  dom 
inant  place  held  by  women  writers  of  the  short  story —  Mrs. 
Wharton,  Mrs.  Comer,  Mrs.  Gerould,  Sarah  Orne  Jewett, 
Alice  Brown,  Mary  Antin,  Zephine  Humphrey,  Edith 
Ronald  Merrielees,  Margaret  Fresco tt  Montague,  Kath 
leen  Norris,  E.  Nesbit,  Laura  Spencer  Portor,  Anna  Fuller, 
Edith  Wyatt,  Margaret  Lynn,  Elizabeth  Ashe,  Anne 
Douglas  Sedgwick,  Elsie  Singmaster,  Margaret  Sherwood. 
Among  the  Atlantic  contributors  we  should  find  it  difficult 
indeed  to  match  this  list  with  an  equal  number  of  men 
equally  gifted  in  story-telling  power.  But  even  if  we 
should  succeed  in  such  a  fatuous  pairing  of  talent,  we 
should  still  be  impressed  with  the  high  place  attained  by 
the  women  writers  —  high  in  contrast  with  the  place 
which  they  have  attained  in  painting,  sculpture,  architec 
ture,  drama,  and  music. 

And  why  this  high  attainment  in  the  realm  of  the  short 
story?  Perhaps  it  is  partially  due  to  a  lighter- winged 
fancy  native  in  the  feminine  mind  —  a  fancy  that  roves 
with  more  natural  ease  and  grace  among  the  animals  and 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

flowers  of  earth,  among  the  clouds  and  stars  and  spirits  of 
the  sky,  among  the  demon-haunted  grottoes  of  the  under 
world.  From  all  these  easily-directed  journeys  perhaps 
it  turns  more  naturally  to  the  penetrable  secrets  of  hu 
man  motive  —  penetrable,  however,  only  to  those  hearts 
which  yield  quickly,  spontaneously  —  even  wantonly  — 
to  the  springs  of  love,  hate,  beauty,  justice,  jealousy,  fear, 
vengeance,  and  the  silent  routine  of  daily  duty.  Doing  all 
this  of  its  natural  self,  the  heart  can  more  readily  guide  the 
mind  in  the  deft  record  of  vicarious  action.  Leastwise, 
to  make  a  simple  record  of  a  real  or  an  imagined  experi 
ence  is  a  task  which  can  be  more  easily  done  by  girls 
than  by  boys. 

As  boys  and  girls  grow  into  maturity  and  the  desire  for 
contact  with  life  increases,  the  masculine  mind  finds  its 
natural  outlet  in  business,  in  wrestlings  with  the  soil,  in 
contests  of  law  and  —  at  the  present  moment,  alas !  —  in 
the  chaos  of  relentless  war.  Woman's  sphere,  though  con 
tinually  enlarging,  is  still  relatively  narrowed,  and  she 
seeks  her  freedom  in  the  realm  of  imagination,  thus  identi 
fying  herself  oftentimes  in  the  work-a-day  contests  of  men. 
This  mental  exercise  within  the  wide  gamut  of  imagined 
emotions  naturally  helps  her  to  enter  sympathetically  into 
varied  contests.  And  it  is  perhaps  because  of  her  broad 
ened  understanding  that  she  is  fuller  and  truer  in  her 
written  record. 

The  feminine  mind,  moreover,  is  more  observant  of  de 
tail  and  more  ready  to  perceive  a  lack  of  harmony  in  ar 
rangement;  and  while  mere  fullness  of  observation  might 
in  isolated  cases  lead  to  incontinent  garrulousness,  the 
generous  flow  is  usually  held  in  sufficient  check  by  that 
nicer  feminine  perception  of  an  aesthetic  effect  that  dic 
tates  shearing  and  compression. 

Perhaps  the  widening  of  the  educational  field,  the  world's 


xxii  INTRODUCTION 

fuller  acknowledgment  of  woman's  varied  ability,  her  easier 
mastery  of  delicate  technique,  a  more  habitual  access  to  a 
writing-pad  —  perhaps  all  these  combine  with  other  facts 
and  circumstances  to  encourage  her  in  this  prolific  output 
of  marketable  fiction.  At  any  rate,  the  fact  is  easily 
apparent. 

The  stamp  of  authenticity 

A  further  interesting  fact  revealed  in  an  examination  of 
Atlantic  narratives  is  the  encouragement  of  that  type  of 
story  which  carries  with  it  the  stamp  of  an  authentic  at 
mosphere.  More  than  a  generation  ago  this  magazine  was 
printing  the  stories  of  Bret  Harte  —  stories  that  revealed 
with  great  accuracy  and  skill  and  sympathy  the  spirit  of 
the  California  mining  camp.  Bret  Harte  had  lived  and 
breathed  the  grim  and  romantic  spirit  of  this  environ 
ment.  Fusing  this  experience  with  an  imagination  that 
emotionalized  a  native  instinct  for  story-telling,  Bret 
Harte  was  able  to  lend  to  his  writing  a  verisimilitude  that 
easily  won  the  reader's  interest  in  the  charm  and  novelty 
of  that  strenuous  and  elemental  western  life. 

While  the  work  of  Bret  Harte  perhaps  most  strikingly 
illustrates  this  power  of  authentic  portrayal  of  experience 
and  place,  there  are  scores  of  Atlantic  stories  that  employ 
the  same  general  method.  Sarah  Orne  Jewett,  in  such 
stories  as  The  Queen's  Twin,  The  Life  of  Nancy,  and  A 
Dummet  Shepherd,  has  admirably  re-created  the  simple 
life  of  rural  New  England.  Lafcadio  Hearn  has  realis 
tically  brought  to  us  the  spirit  of  Japan,  Jacob  Riis  has 
portrayed  for  us  many  pictures  of  New  York  tenement 
life,  Joseph  Husband  has  brought  us  into  the  atmosphere 
of  industrialism,  H.  G.  Dwight  and  Charles  Johnson 
have  allowed  us  to  breathe  the  spirit  of  Orientalism. 
And  scores  of  other  writers,  such  as  Dallas  Lore  Sharp, 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 

E.  Morlae,  Margaret  Prescott  Montague,  Abraham  Rih- 
bany,  Mary  Antin,  Mildred  Aldrich,  Simeon  Strunsky, 
after  they  have  lived  their  separate  experiences,  have 
shared  with  us  the  intimate  memories  which  those  per 
sonal  experiences  have  bequeathed. 

Sordidness  rejected 

The  Atlantic  traditions,  for  the  most  part,  have  re 
jected  the  harrowing  and  the  sordid  and  the  meretricious. 
Contrasted  with  the  tone  of  tragic  realism  so  often  domi 
nant  in  Gorky,  Dostoevsky,  Turgenef,  Maupassant,  and 
Zola,  we  usually  find  in  the  pages  of  the  Atlantic  an  em 
phasis  upon  themes  which  suggest  a  gentler  and  more 
humane  spirit.  The  winds  of  heaven  do,  of  course,  some 
times  blow  over  places  that  are  bleak,  barren,  and  desolate. 
They  shriek  and  moan  through  winter  wilds,  and  some 
times  the  human  mood  that  corresponds  to  this  despair 
has  found  its  reflection  in  stories  which  the  Atlantic  has 
printed.  But  the  mission  of  the  magazine  has  in  general 
been  in  the  sunlit  fields  or  near  the  hearthfire's  glow.  If 
it  sometimes  has  witnessed  tragedy,  it  has  never  found 
delight  in  the  disclosure  of  grimness  for  grimness'  sake. 
It  has  been  more  watchful  of  scenes  within  the  common 
places  of  human  action;  here  the  writers  have  found 
themes  of  quiet  pathos,  of  homely  humor,  and  of  rich  ro 
mance.  Small  wonder,  indeed,  if  since  August,  1914, 
grimmer  scenes  than  usual  should  not  sometimes  shadow 
the  pages!  But  even  so;  the  writers  have  not  yet  lost 
their  sanity,  their  hopefulness,  or  their  quiet  sense  of 
humor. 

Possibilities  within  the  future 

After  these  comments  on  the  more  dominant  charac 
teristics  of  the  short  story  it  is  natural  to  inquire  into  the 


xxiv  INTRODUCTION 

possible  future  of  the  art.  It  is  apparent  that  writers  are 
paying  careful  attention  to  technique,  and  there  is  real 
danger  to  the  art  if  technique  is  to  be  too  narrowly  inter 
preted  and  too  slavishly  followed.  A  credulous  accept 
ance  of  a  guide  has  always  worked  havoc  in  the  field  of 
creative  literature.  Aristotle,  and  Horace,  and  Longinus 
—  to  revert  to  a  literary  period  now  far  distant  —  showed 
admirable  critical  acumen,  but  it  may  be  sincerely  ques 
tioned  whether  they  enhanced  the  worth  of  Grecian  and 
Roman  literature.  We  may  be  quite  sure  that  the  critical 
writings  of  neither  Boileau  nor  Pope  deepened  or  improved 
French  or  English  poetry.  Will  our  short  stories  be  any 
better  here  in  America  because  Brander  Matthews,  Bliss 
Perry,  Clayton  Hamilton,  Henry  S.  Canby,  W.  B.  Pitkin, 
Miss  Albright,  Miss  Ashmun,  and  a  score  of  others  have 
written  so  entertainingly  about  them?  As  I  have  read 
these  criticisms  and  as  I  have  seen  new  writers  apparently 
influenced  by  these  criticisms  and  by  the  methods  obvious 
in  Poe,  Bret  Harte,  Kipling,  and  O.  Henry,  I  have  been 
reluctantly  made  to  feel  that  we  were  perhaps  on  the  verge 
of  yielding  to  the  technique  of  the  telling  rather  than  to 
the  substance  of  the  experience. 

Where  art  becomes  too  self-conscious  and  too  critical,  it 
sacrifices  spontaneity  and  elemental  power,  and  smothers 
itself  in  the  wrappings  of  its  self-woven  web.  Reliance 
upon  technique  and  long  practice  in  its  use  will  help  crude- 
ness  to  rise  to  mediocrity,  but  the  process  will  never  lift  the 
mediocre  writer  to  the  plane  of  the  supremely  excellent 
or  the  austerely  great. 

Perhaps  the  present  danger  lies  partly  in  the  attitude 
of  the  magazine  editor  whose  sceptre  is  his  check-book. 
Let  us  not  deceive  ourselves.  Literature  is  now  a  business 
—  or  if  not  wholly  commercialized,  it  is  acutely  sensitive 
to  the  laws  of  the  trade.  The  purely  commercial  editors, 


INTRODUCTION  xxv 

with  their  eyes  riveted  to  the  main  chance,  have  come  to 
recognize  the  power  of  technique,  and  to  it  they  have  been 
paying  bountiful  tribute.  The  public  has  in  turn  learned 
to  expect  the  sudden  start,  the  swift  pace,  the  placarded 
climax,  the  clever  paradox,  the  crisp  repartee,  the  pinch 
beck  style,  the  bared  realism,  the  concluding  click.  It  is 
all  very  perfect  and  very  regular,  and  the  editor  in  accept 
ing  the  manuscript  that  adheres  to  each  conventional 
requirement  encloses  his  check  for  two  hundred  dollars 
in  a  letter  that  contains  an  order  for  a  half  dozen  more 
of  the  identical  type.  One  of  the  deplorable  adjuncts  of 
this  procedure  is  that  the  editor  often  realizes  the  empti 
ness  of  this  technically  correct  story,  and  his  own  best  lit 
erary  judgment  spurns  it.  But  trying  to  objectify  what 
his  clientele  would  applaud,  he  pays  the  price  and  orders 
more. 

Conversely,  a  story  with  genuine  substance  and  sincere 
feeling  comes  to  his  desk.  He  reads  it  and  approves. 
Then  he  asks  that  fateful  question  —  What  will  my  read 
ing  public  say?  He  concludes  that  they  will  note  the  utter 
lack  of  climax,  of  cleverness,  of  ingenuity,  of  realistic  con 
tact  with  unadorned  every  day  ness.  He  closes  the  inci 
dent  by  a  return  of  the  manuscript  with  a  printed  rejection 
slip  enclosed. 

But  this  procedure  is  sometimes  happily  reversed:  an 
editor  has  had  the  fortitude  to  ignore  the  fancied  judg 
ment  of  his  readers  and  has  relied  upon  his  own  impres 
sions  of  what  constitutes  literary  worth.  He  is  conscious 
that  the  story  he  has  accepted  is  written  in  utter  igno 
rance  or  in  total  disregard  of  traditional  propriety  and  the 
laws  of  modern  technique;  yet  it  carries  a  message,  it  re 
veals  character,  it  shows  real  thinking  powers.  Accepted 
and  published,  as  was  Arthur  Russell  Taylor's  Mr.  Squem, 
it  has  been  enthusiastically  received  by  its  readers. 


xxvi  INTRODUCTION 

There  is  one  final  conviction  that  emerges  from  the 
varied  and  the  multitudinous  impressions  that  come  from 
the  reading  of  all  these  stories.  Every  individual  has  an 
experience  worth  narrating;  and  most  individuals  have 
scores  upon  scores  of  experiences  —  real  or  imagined  — 
that  are  worth  narrating.  To  succeed  in  the  attempt  one 
does  not  necessarily  need  to  be  a  conscious  master  of  tech 
nique.  He  must,  of  course,  have  a  reasonably  firm  com 
mand  of  his  vernacular  —  indeed,  to  succeed  in  any  large 
degree,  he  must  attain  unquestioned  mastery  and  fittingly 
fashion  his  style  to  the  theme  immediately  at  hand.  He 
should  have  a  sense  of  organization  that  deftly  orders 
the  proper  sequence  of  events  and  skillfully  adjusts  both 
minor  and  major  incidents  to  secure  a  unified  impression. 
There  is,  I  am  convinced,  no  single  minor  rule  that 
critics  may  formulate  which  will  stand  a  rigid  acid  test. 
Genius  abrogates  every  law;  talent  may  abrogate  most 
laws.  A  great  experience,  a  great  situation,  a  great 
theme,  a  great  character,  a  great  scene,  a  great  emotion 
—  any  one  of  these  may  direct  even  an  ordinary  writer 
to  successful  narration.  The  skilled  story-teller  will  win 
success  from  even  scanty  material  —  but  the  scanty  ma 
terial  will  be  enriched  by  a  sense  of  humor,  an  ingenious 
fancy,  a  felicitous  style,  a  controlling  imagination,  a  deft 
craftsmanship,  or  a  keen  perception  of  the  value  and  regu 
lation  of  detail. 


THE  PRELIMINARIES  3 

Oliver  tried  to  soothe  her.  Secretly  he  was  appalled  at 
these  squalid  revelations  of  discordant  family  life.  The 
domestic  affairs  of  the  Pickersgills  ran  smoothly,  in  afflu 
ence  and  peace.  Oliver  had  never  listened  to  a  nagging 
woman  in  his  life.  He  had  an  idea  that  such  phenomena 
were  confined  to  the  lower  classes. 

*  Don't  you  care  for  me  at  all,  Ruth?' 

The  girl  crumpled  her  wet  handkerchief.  'Ollie,  you're 
the  most  beautiful  thing  that  ever  happened  — •  except  my 
father.  He  was  beautiful,  too;  indeed,  indeed,  he  was. 
I'll  never  think  differently.  I  can't.  He  tried  so  hard. ' 

All  the  latent  manliness  in  the  boy  came  to  the  surface 
and  showed  itself. 

'Ruth,  darling,  I  do  n't  want  you  to  think  differently. 
It's  right  for  you  to  be  loyal  and  feel  as  you  do.  You  see, 
you  know,  and  the  world  does  n't.  I'll  take  what  you  say 
and  do  as  you  wish.  You  must  n't  think  I'm  on  the  other 
side.  I'm  not.  I'm  on  your  side,  wherever  that  is.  When 
the  time  comes  I'll  show  you.  You  may  trust  me,  Ruth. ' 

He  was  eager,  pleading,  earnest.  He  looked  at  the 
moment  so  good,  so  loving  and  sincere,  that  the  girl,  out  of 
her  darker  experience  of  life,  wondered  wistfully  if  it  were 
really  true  that  Providence  ever  let  people  just  live  their 
lives  out  like  that  —  being  good,  and  prosperous,  and 
generous,  advancing  from  happiness  to  happiness,  instead 
of  stubbing  along  painfully  as  she  felt  she  had  done,  from 
one  bitter  experience  to  another,  learning  to  live  by  fail 
ures. 

It  must  be  beautiful  to  learn  from  successes  instead,  as  it 
seemed  to  her  Oliver  had  done.  How  could  any  one  refuse 
to  share  such  a  radiant  life  when  it  was  offered?  As  for 
loving  Oliver,  that  was  a  foregone  conclusion.  Still,  she 
hesitated. 

'You're  awfully  dear  and  good  to  me,  Ollie,'  she  said. 


4  THE  PRELIMINARIES 

*  But  I  want  you  to  see  father.  I  want  you  to  go  and  talk 
to  him  about  this,  and  know  him  for  yourself.  I  know  I'm 
asking  a  hard  thing  of  you,  but,  truly,  I  believe  it's  best. 
If  he  says  it's  all  right  for  me  to  marry  you,  I  will  —  if  your 
family  want  me,  of  course/  she  added  as  an  afterthought. 

*  Ought  n't  I  to  speak  to  your  mother? '  hesitated  Oliver. 

'  Oh,  — •  mother?  Yes,  I  suppose  she'd  like  it, '  said  Ruth, 
absent-mindedly.  *  Mother  has  views  about  getting  mar 
ried,  Ollie.  I  dare  say  she'll  want  to  tell  you  what  they  are. 
You  must  n't  think  they're  my  views,  though. ' 

'I'd  rather  hear  yours,  Ruth.' 

She  flashed  a  look  at  him  that  opened  for  him  the  heav 
enly  deeps  that  lie  before  the  young  and  the  loving,  and  he 
had  a  sudden  vision  of  their  life  as  a  long  sunlit  road,  wind 
ing  uphill,  winding  down,  but  sunlit  always- — -because 
looks  like  that  illumine  any  dusk. 

*  I'll  tell  you  my  views  —  some  day, '  Ruth  said  softly. 
'  But  first  — ' 

*  First  I  must  talk  to  my  father,  your  mother,  your 
father.'    Oliver  checked  them  off  on  his  fingers.    'Three  of 
them.    Seems  to  me  that's  a  lot  of  folks  to  consult  about  a 
thing  that  does  n't  really  concern  anybody  but  you  and 
me!' 

II 

After  the  fashion  of  self-absorbed  youth,  Oliver  had 
never  noticed  Mrs.  Lannithorne  especially.  She  had  been 
to  him  simply  a  sallow  little  figure  in  the  background  of 
Ruth's  vivid  young  life;  some  one  to  be  spoken  to  very  po 
litely,  but  otherwise  of  no  particular  moment. 

If  his  marital  negotiations  did  nothing  else  for  him,  they 
were  at  least  opening  his  eyes  to  the  significance  of  the  per 
sonalities  of  older  people. 

The  things  Ruth  said  about  her  mother  had  prepared 


THE  PRELIMINARIES  5 

him  to  find  that  lady  querulous  and  difficult,  but  essen 
tially  negligible.  Face  to  face  with  Mrs.  Lannithorne,  he 
had  a  very  different  impression.  She  received  him  in  the 
upstairs  sitting-room  to  which  her  semi-invalid  habits 
usually  confined  her.  Wrapped  in  a  white  wool  shawl  and 
lying  in  a  long  Canton  lounging-chair  by  a  sunshiny  win 
dow,  she  put  out  a  chilly  hand  in  greeting,  and  asked  the 
young  man  to  be  seated. 

Oliver,  scanning  her  countenance,  received  an  unexpected 
impression  of  dignity.  She  was  thin  and  nervous,  with  big 
dark  eyes  peering  out  of  a  pale,  narrow  face;  she  might  be  a 
woman  with  a  grievance,  but  he  apprehended  something 
beyond  mere  fretfulness  in  the  discontent  of  her  expression. 
There  was  suffering  and  thought  in  her  face,  and  even 
when  the  former  is  exaggerated  and  the  latter  erroneous, 
these  are  impressive  things. 

'Mrs.  Lannithorne,  have  you  any  objection  to  letting 
Ruth  marry  me?' 

'Mr.  Pickersgill,  what  are  your  qualifications  for  the 
care  of  a  wife  and  family? ' 

Oliver  hesitated.  'Why,  about  what  anybody's  are,  I 
think, '  he  said,  and  was  immediately  conscious  of  the  fee 
bleness  of  this  response.  'I  mean,'  he  added,  flushing  to 
the  roots  of  his  blond  hair,  'that  my  prospects  in  life  are 
fair.  I  am  in  my  father's  office,  you  know.  I  am  to  have  a 
small  share  in  the  business  next  year.  I  need  n't  tell  you 
that  the  firm  is  a  good  one.  If  you  want  to  know  about  my 
qualifications  as  a  lawyer  —  why,  I  can  refer  you  to  people 
who  can  tell  you  if  they  think  I  am  promising. ' 

'  Do  your  family  approve  of  this  marriage?  * 

'I  have  n't  talked  to  them  about  it  yet. ' 

'Have  you  ever  saved  any  money  of  your  own  earning, 
or  have  you  any  property  in  your  own  name? ' 

Oliver  thought  guiltily  of  his  bank  account,  which  had  a 


6  THE  PRELIMINARIES 

surprising  way  of  proving,  when  balanced,  to  be  less  than 
he  expected. 

'Well, — not  exactly.' 

'In  other  words,  then,  Mr.  Pickersgill,  you  are  a  young 
and  absolutely  untried  man;  you  are  in  your  father's  em 
ploy  and  practically  at  his  mercy;  you  propose  a  great 
change  in  your  life  of  which  you  do  not  know  that  he  ap 
proves  ;  you  have  no  resources  of  your  own,  and  you  are  not 
even  sure  of  your  earning  capacity  if  your  father's  backing 
were  withdrawn.  In  these  circumstances  you  plan  to 
double  your  expenses  and  assume  the  whole  responsibility 
of  another  person's  life,  comfort,  and  happiness.  Do  you 
think  that  you  have  shown  me  that  your  qualifications  are 
adequate? ' 

All  this  was  more  than  a  little  disconcerting.  Oliver  was 
used  to  being  accepted  as  old  PickersgilPs  only  son  — 
which  meant  a  cheerfully  accorded  background  of  emi 
nence,  ability,  and  comfortable  wealth.  It  had  not  oc 
curred  to  him  to  detach  himself  from  that  background  and 
see  how  he  looked  when  separated  from  it.  He  felt  a  little 
angry,  and  also  a  little  ashamed  of  the  fact  that  he  did  not 
bulk  larger  as  a  personage,  apart  from  his  environment. 
Nevertheless,  he  answered  her  question  honestly. 

'  No,  Mrs.  Lannithorne,  I  don't  think  that  I  have. ' 

She  did  not  appear  to  rejoice  in  his  discomfiture.  She 
even  seemed  a  little  sorry  for  it,  but  she  went  on  quietly :  — 

'Don't  think  I  am  trying  to  prove  that  you  are  the  most 
ineligible  young  man  in  the  city.  But  it  is  absolutely  neces 
sary  that  a  man  should  stand  on  his  own  feet,  and  firmly, 
before  he  undertakes  to  look  after  other  lives  than  his  own. 
Otherwise  there  is  nothing  but  misery  for  the  woman  and 
children  who  depend  upon  him.  It  is  a  serious  business, 
getting  married.' 

'I  begin  to  think  it  is,'  muttered  Oliver  blankly. 


THE  PRELIMINARIES  7 

*I  don't  want  my  daughters  to  marry,'  said  Mrs.  Lanni- 
thorne.  'The  life  is  a  thousand  times  harder  than  that  of 
the  self-supporting  woman  —  harder  work,  fewer  rewards, 
less  enjoyment,  less  security.  That  is  true  even  of  an  ordi 
narily  happy  marriage.  And  if  they  are  not  happy  —  Oh, 
the  bitterness  of  them!' 

She  was  speaking  rapidly  now,  with  energy,  almost  with 
anguish.  Oliver,  red  in  the  face,  subdued,  but  eager  to  re 
fute  her  out  of  the  depths  and  heights  of  his  inexperience, 
held  himself  rigidly  still  and  listened. 

'  Did  you  ever  hear  that  epigram  of  Disraeli  —  that  all 
men  should  marry,  but  no  women?  That  is  what  I  be 
lieve  !  At  least,  if  women  must  marry,  let  others  do  it,  not 
my  children,  not  my  little  girls !  —  It  is  curious,  but  that 
is  how  we  always  think  of  them.  When  they  are  grown 
they  are  often  uncongenial.  My  daughter  Ruth  does  not 
love  me  deeply,  nor  am  I  greatly  drawn  to  her  now,  as  an 
individual,  a  personality,  —  but  Ruth  was  such  a  dear 
baby !  I  can't  bear  to  have  her  suffer. ' 

Oliver  started  to  protest,  hesitated,  bit  his  lip,  and  sub 
sided.  After  all,  did  he  dare  say  that  his  wife  would  never 
suffer?  The  woman  opposite  looked  at  him  with  hostile, 
accusing  eyes,  as  if  he  incarnated  in  his  youthful  person  all 
the  futile  masculinity  in  the  world. 

'Do  you  think  a  woman  who  has  suffered  willingly  gives 
her  children  over  to  the  same  fate?'  she  demanded  pas 
sionately.  '  I  wish  I  could  make  you  see  it  for  five  minutes 
as  I  see  it,  you,  young,  careless,  foolish !  Why,  you  know 
nothing  —  nothing!  Listen  to  me.  The  woman  who 
marries  gives  up  everything,  or  at  least  jeopardizes  every 
thing  :  her  youth,  her  health,  her  life  perhaps,  certainly  her 
individuality.  She  acquires  the  permanent  possibility  of 
self-sacrifice.  She  does  it  gladly,  but  she  does  not  know 
what  she  is  doing.  In  return,  is  it  too  much  to  ask  that  she 


8  THE  PRELIMINARIES 

be  assured  a  roof  over  her  head,  food  to  her  mouth,  clothes 
to  her  body?  How  many  men  marry  without  being  sure 
that  they  have  even  so  much  to  offer?  You  yourself,  of 
what  are  you  sure?  Is  your  arm  strong?  Is  your  heart 
loyal?  Can  you  shelter  her  soul  as  well  as  her  body?  I 
know  your  father  has  money.  Perhaps  you  can  care  for 
her  creature  needs,  but  that  is  n't  all.  For  some  women 
life  is  one  long  affront,  one  slow  humiliation.  How  do  I 
know  you  are  not  like  that? ' 

*  Because  I'm  not,  that's  all!'  said  Oliver  Pickersgill 
abruptly,  getting  to  his  feet. 

He  felt  badgered,  baited,  indignant,  yet  he  could  not  tell 
this  frail,  excited  woman  what  he  thought.  There  were 
things  one  did  n't  say,  although  Mrs.  Lannithorne  seemed 
to  ignore  the  fact.  She  went  on  ignoring  it. 

'I  know  what  you  are  thinking, '  she  said,  'that  I  would 
regard  these  matters  differently  if  I  had  married  another 
man.  That  is  not  wholly  true.  It  is  because  Peter  Lanni 
thorne  was  a  good  man  at  heart,  and  tried  to  play  the 
man's  part  as  well  as  he  knew  how,  and  because  it  was 
partly  my  own  fault  that  he  failed  so  miserably,  that  I 
have  thought  of  it  all  so  much.  And  the  end  of  all  my 
thinking  is  that  I  don't  want  my  daughters  to  marry. ' 

Oliver  was  white  now,  and  a  little  unsteady.  He  was 
also  confused.  There  was  the  note  of  truth  in  what  she 
said,  but  he  felt  that  she  said  it  with  too  much  excitement, 
with  too  great  facility.  He  had  the  justified  masculine 
distrust  of  feminine  fluency  as  hysterical.  Nothing  so  pre 
sented  could  carry  full  conviction.  And  he  felt  physically 
bruised  and  battered,  as  if  he  had  been  beaten  with  actual 
rods  instead  of  stinging  words;  but  he  was  not  yet  defeated. 
'Mrs.  Lannithorne,  what  do  you  wish  me  to  understand 
from  all  this.  Do  you  forbid  Ruth  and  me  to  marry  —  is 
that  it?' 


THE  PRELIMINARIES  9 

She  looked  at  him  dubiously.  She  felt  so  fiercely  the 
things  she  had  been  saying  that  she  could  not  feel  them 
continuously.  She,  too,  was  exhausted. 

Oliver  Pickersgill  had  a  fine  head,  candid  eyes,  a  firm 
chin,  strong  capable  hands.  He  was  young,  and  the  young 
know  nothing,  but  it  might  be  that  there  was  the  making  of 
a  man  in  him.  If  Ruth  must  marry,  perhaps  him  as  well 
as  another.  But  she  did  not  trust  her  own  judgment,  even 
of  such  hands,  such  eyes,  and  such  a  chin.  Oh,  if  the  girls 
would  only  believe  her,  if  they  would  only  be  content  to 
trust  the  wisdom  she  had  distilled  from  the  bitterness  of 
life!  But  the  young  know  nothing,  and  believe  only  the 
lying  voices  in  their  own  hearts ! 

'I  wish  you  would  see  Ruth's  father/  she  said  suddenly. 
*I  am  prejudiced.  I  ought  not  to  have  to  deal  with  these 
questions.  I  tell  you,  I  pray  Heaven  none  of  them  may 
marry  —  ever;  but,  just  the  same,  they  will !  Go  ask  Peter 
Lannithorne  if  he  thinks  his  daughter  Ruth  has  a  fighting 
chance  for  happiness  as  your  wife.  Let  him  settle  it.  I 
have  told  you  what  I  think.  I  am  done. ' 

'I  shall  be  very  glad  to  talk  with  Ruth's  father  about 
the  matter, '  said  Oliver  with  a  certain  emphasis  on  father. 
*  Perhaps  he  and  I  shall  be  able  to  understand  each  other 
better.  Good-morning,  Mrs.  Lannithorne ! ' 


in 

Oliver  Pickersgill  Senior  turned  his  swivel-chair  about, 
bit  hard  on  the  end  of  his  cigar,  and  stared  at  his  only  son. 

*  What's  that?'  he  said  abruptly.    *  Say  that  again. ' 

Oliver  Junior  winced,  not  so  much  at  the  words  as  at  his 
father's  face. 

*I  want  to  marry  Ruth  Lannithorne,'  he  repeated 
steadily. 


10  THE  PRELIMINARIES 

There  was  a  silence.  The  elder  Pickersgill  looked  at  his 
son  long  and  hard  from  under  lowered  brows.  Oliver  had 
never  seen  his  father  look  at  him  like  that  before :  as  if  he 
were  a  rank  outsider,  some  detached  person  whose  doings 
were  to  be  scrutinized  coldly  and  critically,  and  judged  on 
their  merits.  It  is  a  hard  hour  for  a  beloved  child  when  he 
first  sees  that  look  in  heretofore  indulgent  parental  eyes. 
Young  Oliver  felt  a  weight  at  his  heart,  but  he  sat  the 
straighter,  and  did  not  flinch  before  the  appraising  glance. 

*  So  you  want  to  marry  Peter  Lannithorne's  daughter,  do 
you?     Well,  now  what  is  there  in  the  idea  of  marrying  a 
jail-bird's  child  that  you  find  especially  attractive?' 

'Of  course  I  might  say  that  I've  seen  something  of  busi 
ness  men  in  this  town,  Ross,  say,  and  Worcester,  and  Jim 
Stone,  and  that  if  it  came  to  a  choice  between  their  meth 
ods  and  Lannithorne's,  his  were  the  squarer,  for  he  settled 
up,  and  is  paying  the  price  besides.  But  I  don't  know  that 
there's  any  use  saying  that.  I  don't  want  to  marry  any  of 
their  daughters  — •  and  you  would  n't  want  me  to.  You 
know  what  Ruth  Lannithorne  is  as  well  as  I  do.  If  there's 
a  girl  in  town  that's  finer-grained,  or  smarter,  or  prettier, 
I'd  like  to  have  you  point  her  out !  And  she  has  a  sense  of 
honor  like  a  man's.  I  don't  know  another  girl  like  her  in 
that.  She  knows  what's  fair, '  said  the  young  man. 
.  Mr.  Pickersgill's  face  relaxed  a  little.  Oliver  was  making 
a  good  argument  with  no  mushiness  about  it,  and  he  had  a 
long-settled  habit  of  appreciating  Ollie's  arguments. 

'She  knows  what's  fair,  does  she?  Then  what  does  she 
say  about  marrying  you? ' 

*  She  says  she  won't  marry  anybody  who  does  n't  respect 
her  father  as  she  does ! ' 

At  this  the  parent  grinned  a  little,  grimly  it  is  true,  but 
appreciatively.  He  looked  past  Oliver's  handsome,  boyish 


THE  PRELIMINARIES  11 

head,  out  of  the  window,  and  was  silent  for  a  time.    When 
he  spoke,  it  was  gravely,  not  angrily. 

*  Oliver,  you're  young.  The  things  I'm  as  sure  of  as  two 
and  two,  you  don't  yet  believe  at  all.  Probably  you  won't 
believe  'em  if  I  put  them  to  you,  but  it's  up  to  me  to  do  it. 
Understand,  I'm  not  getting  angry  and  doing  the  heavy 
father  over  this.  I'm  just  telling  you  how  some  things  are 
in  this  world,  —  facts,  like  gravitation  and  atmospheric 
pressure.  Ruth  Lannithorne  is  a  good  girl,  I  don't  doubt. 
This  world  is  chuck  full  of  good  girls.  It  makes  some 
difference  which  one  of  'em  you  marry,  but  not  nearly  so 
much  difference  as  you  think  it  does.  What  matters,  from 
forty  on,  for  the  rest  of  your  life,  is  the  kind  of  inherit 
ance  you've  given  your  children.  You  don't  know  it  yet, 
but  the  thing  that's  laid  on  men  and  women  to  do  is  to 
give  their  children  as  good  an  inheritance  as  they  can. 
Take  it  from  me  that  this  is  Gospel  truth,  can't  you?  Your 
mother  and  I  have  done  the  best  we  can  for  you  and  your 
sisters.  You  come  from  good  stock,  and  by  that  I  mean 
honest  blood.  You've  got  to  pass  it  on  untainted.  Now  — • 
hold  on ! '  he  held  up  a  warning  hand  as  Oliver  was  about  to 
interrupt  hotly.  *  Wait  till  I'm  through  — -  and  then  think 
it  over.  I'm  not  saying  that  Peter  Lannithorne's  blood 
is  n't  as  good  as  much  that  passes  for  untainted,  or  that 
Ruth  is  n't  a  fine  girl.  I'm  only  telling  you  this :  when  first 
you  look  into  your  son's  face,  every  failing  of  your  own  will 
rise  up  to  haunt  you  because  you  will  wish  for  nothing  on 
God's  earth  so  much  as  that  that  boy  shall  have  a  fair  show 
in  life  and  be  a  better  man  than  you.  You  will  thank 
Heaven  for  every  good  thing  you  know  of  in  your  blood  and 
in  your  wife's,  and  you  will  regret  every  meanness,  every 
weakness,  that  he  may  inherit,  more  than  you  knew  it  was 
in  you  to  regret  anything.  Do  you  suppose  when  that  hour 


12  THE  PRELIMINARIES 

comes  to  you  that  you'll  want  to  remember  his  grandfather 
was  a  convict?    How  will  you  face  that  down? ' 

Young  Oliver's  face  was  pale.  He  had  never  thought  of 
things  like  this.  He  made  no  response  for  a  while.  At  last 
he  asked,  — • 

*  What  kind  of  a  man  is  Peter  Lannithorne?' 

*  Eh?    What  kind  of  — ?    Oh,  well,  as  men  go,  there  have 
been  worse  ones.    You  know  how  he  came  to  get  sent  up. 
He  speculated,  and  he  borrowed  some  of  another  man's 
money  without  asking,  for  twenty-four  hours,  to  protect 
his  speculation.    He  did  n't  lose  it,  either!    There's  a  point 
where  his  case  differs  from  most.     He  pulled  the  thing  off 
and  made  enough  to  keep  his  family  going  in  decent  com 
fort,  and  he  paid  the  other  money  back;  but  they  con 
cluded  to  make  an  example  of  him,  so  they  sent  him  up.    It 
was  just,  yes,  and  he  said  so  himself.    At  the  same  time 
there  are  a  great  many  more  dishonest  men  out  of  prison 
than  Peter  Lannithorne,  though  he  is  in  it.     I  meet  'em 
every  day,  and  I  ought  to  know.    But  that's  not  the  point. 
As  you  said  yourself,  you  don't  want  to  marry  their  daugh 
ters.    Heaven  forbid  that  you  should !    You  want  to  marry 
his  daughter.    And  he  was  weak.    He  was  tempted  and  fell 
—  and  got  found  out.    He  is  a  convict,  and  the  taint  sticks. 
The  Lord  knows  why  the  stain  of  unsuccessful  dishonesty 
should  stick  longer  than  the  stain  of  successful  dishonesty. 
I  do  n't.    But  we  know  it  does.    That  is  the  way  things  are. 
Why  not  marry  where  there  is  no  taint?' 

'Father—?' 
4  Yes,  Ollie.' 

*  Father,  see  here.    He  was  weak  and  gave  way  —  once! 
Are  there  any  men  in  the  world  who  have  n't  given  way 
at  least  once   about   something   or   other?  —  are  there, 
father?' 

There  was  a  note  of  anguish  in  the  boy's  voice.    Perhaps 


THE  PRELIMINARIES  13 

he  was  being  pushed  too  far.     Oliver  Pickersgill  Senior 
cleared  his  throat,  paused,  and  at  last  answered  sombrely, — 

'God  knows,  Ollie.    I  do  n't.    I  won't  say  there  are. ' 

'Well,  then—' 

'See  here!'  his  father  interrupted  sharply.  'Of  course 
I  see  your  argument.  I  won't  meet  it.  I  shan't  try.  It 
does  n't  change  my  mind  even  if  it  is  a  good  argument. 
We'll  never  get  anywhere,  arguing  along  those  lines.  I'll 
propose  something  else.  Suppose  you  go  ask  Peter  Lanni- 
thorne  whether  you  shall  marry  his  daughter  or  not.  Yes, 
ask  him.  He  knows  what's  what  as  well  as  the  next  man. 
Ask  Peter  Lannithorne  what  a  man  wants  in  the  family  of 
the  woman  he  marries. ' 

There  was  a  note  of  finality  in  the  older  man's  voice. 
Ollie  recognized  it  drearily.  All  roads  led  to  Lannithorne, 
it  seemed.  He  rose,  oppressed  with  the  sense  that  hence 
forward  life  was  going  to  be  full  of  unforeseen  problems; 
that  things  which,  from  afar,  looked  simple,  and  easy,  and 
happy,  were  going  to  prove  quite  otherwise.  Mrs.  Lanni 
thorne  had  angered  rather  than  frightened  him,  and  he  had 
held  his  own  with  her;  but  this  was  his  very  own  father 
who  was  piling  the  load  on  his  shoulders  and  filling  his 
heart  with  terror  of  the  future.  What  was  it,  after  all,  this 
adventure  of  the  married  life  whereof  these  seasoned  trav 
elers  spoke  so  dubiously?  Could  it  really  be  that  it  was 
not  the  divine  thing  it  seemed  when  he  and  Ruth  looked 
into  each  other's  eyes? 

He  crossed  the  floor  dejectedly,  with  the  step  of  an  older 
man,  but  at  the  door  he  shook  himself  and  looked  back. 

'Say,  dad!' 
'Yes,  Ollie.' 

'Everybody  is  so  terribly  depressing  about  this  thing,  it 
almost  scares  me.  Are  n't  there  really  any  happy  times  for 
married  people,  ever?  You  and  Mrs.  Lannithorne  make 


14  THE   PRELIMINARIES 

me  feel  there  aren't;  but  somehow  I  have  a  hunch  that 
Ruth  and  I  know  best !  Own  up  now !  Are  you  and  mother 
miserable?  You  never  looked  it ! ' 

His  father  surveyed  him  with  an  expression  too  wistful 
to  be  complacent.  Ah,  those  broad  young  shoulders  that 
must  be  fitted  to  the  yoke!  Yet  for  what  other  end  was 
their  strength  given  them?  Each  man  must  take  his  turn. 

'It's  not  a  soft  snap.  I  don't  know  anything  worth 
while  that  is.  But  there  are  compensations.  You'll  see 
what  some  of  them  are  when  your  boys  begin  to  grow  up. ' 


IV 

Across  Oliver's  young  joy  fell  the  shadow  of  fear.  If, 
as  his  heart  told  him,  there  was  nothing  to  be  afraid  of, 
why  were  his  elders  thus  cautious  and  terrified?  He  felt 
himself  affected  by  their  alarms  all  the  more  potently  be 
cause  his  understanding  of  them  was  vague.  He  groped 
his  way  in  fog.  How  much  ought  he  to  be  influenced  by 
Mrs.  Lannithorne's  passionate  protests  and  his  father's 
stern  warnings?  He  realized  all  at  once  that  the  admoni 
tory  attitude  of  age  to  youth  is  rooted  deep  in  immortal 
necessity.  Like  most  lads,  he  had  never  thought  of  it 
before  save  as  an  unpleasant  parental  habit.  But  fear 
changes  the  point  of  view,  and  Oliver  had  begun  to  be 
afraid. 

Then  again,  before  him  loomed  the  prospect  of  his  inter 
view  with  Peter  Lannithorne.  This  was  a  very  concrete 
unpleasantness.  Hang  it  all !  Ruth  was  worth  any  amount 
of  trouble,  but  still  it  was  a  tough  thing  to  have  to  go  down 
to  the  state  capital  and  seek  one's  future  father-in-law  in 
his  present  boarding-place!  One  oughtn't  to  have  to 
plough  through  that  particular  kind  of  difficulty  on  such  an 
errand.  Dimly  he  felt  that  the  path  to  the  Most  Beautiful 


THE  PRELIMINARIES  15 

should  be  rose-lined  and  soft  to  the  feet  of  the  approaching 
bridegroom.  But,  apparently,  that  was  n't  the  way  such 
paths  were  laid  out.  He  resented  this  bitterly,  but  he  set 
his  jaws  and  proceeded  to  make  his  arrangements. 

It  was  not  difficult  to  compass  the  necessary  interview. 
He  knew  a  man  who  knew  the  warden  intimately.  It  was 
quickly  arranged  that  he  was  to  see  Peter  Lannithorne  in 
the  prison  library,  quite  by  himself. 

Oliver  dragged  himself  to  that  conference  by  the  sheer 
strength  of  his  developing  will.  Every  fibre  of  his  being 
seemed  to  protest  and  hold  back.  Consequently  he  was 
not  in  the  happiest  imaginable  temper  for  important  con 
versation. 

The  prison  library  was  a  long,  narrow  room,  with  book 
cases  to  the  ceiling  on  one  side  and  windows  to  the  ceiling 
on  the  other.  There  were  red  geraniums  on  brackets  up  the 
sides  of  the  windows,  and  a  canary's  cage  on  a  hook  gave 
the  place  a  false  air  of  domesticity,  contradicted  by  the 
barred  sash.  Beneath,  there  was  a  window-seat,  and  here 
Oliver  Pickersgill  awaited  Lannithorne's  coming. 

Ollie  did  not  know  what  he  expected  the  man  to  be  like, 
but  his  irritated  nerves  were  prepared  to  resent  and  dislike 
him,  whatever  he  might  prove.  He  held  himself  rigidly  as 
he  waited,  and  he  could  feel  the  muscles  of  his  face  setting 
themselves  into  hard  lines. 

When  the  door  opened  and  some  one  approached  him. 
he  rose  stiffly  and  held  out  his  hand  like  an  automaton. 

'How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Lannithorne?  I  am  Oliver  Pick 
ersgill,  and  I  have  come  —  I  have  come  — 

His  voice  trailed  off  into  silence,  for  he  had  raised  his 
eyes  perfunctorily  to  Peter  Lannithorne's  face,  and  the 
things  printed  there  made  him  forget  himself  and  the 
speech  he  had  prepared. 

He  saw  a  massive  head  topping  an  insignificant  figure. 


16  THE  PRELIMINARIES 

A  fair  man  was  Peter  Lannithorne,  with  heavy  reddish 
hair,  a  bulging  forehead,  and  deep-set  gray  eyes  with  a 
light  behind  them.  His  features  were  irregular  and  un- 
noticeable,  but  the  sum-total  of  them  gave  the  impression 
of  force.  It  was  a  strong  face,  yet  you  could  see  that  it  had 
once  been  a  weak  one.  It  was  a  tremendously  human  face, 
a  face  like  a  battle-ground,  scarred  and  seamed  and  lined 
with  the  stress  of  invisible  conflicts.  There  was  so  much 
of  struggle  and  thought  set  forth  in  it  that  one  involun 
tarily  averted  one's  gaze.  It  did  not  seem  decent  to  inspect 
so  much  of  the  soul  of  a  man  as  was  shown  in  Peter  Lan- 
nithorne's  countenance.  Not  a  triumphant  face  at  all, 
and  yet  there  was  peace  in  it.  Somehow,  the  man  had 
achieved  something,  arrived  somewhere,  and  the  record  of 
the  journey  was  piteous  and  terrible.  Yet  it  drew  the  eyes 
in  awe  as  much  as  in  wonder,  and  in  pity  not  at  all ! 

These  things  were  startlingly  clear  to  Oliver.  He  saw 
them  with  a  vividness  not  to  be  overestimated.  This  was  a 
prison.  This  might  be  a  convict,  but  he  was  a  man.  He 
was  a  man  who  knew  things  and  would  share  his  knowledge. 
His  wisdom  was  as  patent  as  his  suffering,  and  both  stirred 
young  Oliver's  heart  to  its  depths.  His  pride,  his  irritation, 
his  rigidity  vanished  in  a  flash.  His  fears  were  in  abeyance. 
Only  his  wonder  and  his  will  to  learn  were  left. 

Lannithorne  did  not  take  the  offered  hand,  yet  did  not 
seem  to  ignore  it.  He  came  forward  quietly  and  sat  down 
on  the  window-seat,  half  turning  so  that  he  and  Oliver 
faced  each  other. 

*  Oliver  Pickersgill?'  he  said.  'Then  you  are  Oliver 
Pickersgill's  son.' 

'Yes,  Mr.  Lannithorne.  My  father  sent  me  here  — 
my  father,  and  Mrs.  Lannithorne,  and  Ruth. ' 

At  his  daughter's  name  a  light  leaped  into  Peter  Lan- 


THE  PRELIMINARIES  17 

nithorne's  eyes  that  made  him  look  even  more  acutely  and 
painfully  alive  than  before. 

'And  what  have  you  to  do  with  Ruth,  or  her  mother?' 
the  man  asked. 

Here  it  was!  The  great  moment  was  facing  him. 
Oliver  caught  his  breath,  then  went  straight  to  the  point. 

'I  want  to  marry  your  daughter,  Mr.  Lannithorne. 
We  love  each  other  very  much.  But  —  I  have  n't  quite 
persuaded  her,  and  I  have  n't  persuaded  Mrs.  Lannithorne 
and  my  father  at  all.  They  do  n't  see  it.  They  say  things 
—  all  sorts  of  dreadful  things, '  said  the  boy.  'You  would 
think  they  had  never  been  young  and  —  cared  for  any 
body.  They  seem  to  have  forgotten  what  it  means.  They 
try  to  make  us  afraid  —  just  plain  afraid.  How  am  I  to 
suppose  that  they  know  best  about  Ruth  and  me? ' 

Lannithorne  looked  across  at  the  young  man  long  and 
fixedly.  Then  a  great  kindliness  came  into  his  beaten  face, 
and  a  great  comprehension. 

Oliver,  meeting  his  eyes,  had  a  sudden  sense  of  shelter, 
and  felt  his  haunting  fears  allayed.  It  was  absurd  and 
incredible,  but  this  man  made  him  feel  comfortable,  yes, 
and  eager  to  talk  things  over. 

4 They  all  said  you  would  know.    They  sent  me  to  you. ' 

Peter  Lannithorne  smiled  faintly  to  himself.  He  had 
not  left  his  sense  of  humor  behind  him  in  the  outside 
world. 

'They  sent  you  to  me,  did  they,  boy?  And  what  did 
they  tell  you  to  ask  me?  They  had  different  motives,  I 
take  it.' 

'Rather!  Ruth  said  you  were  the  best  man  she  had  ever 
known,  and  if  you  said  it  was  right  for  her  to  marry  me, 
she  would.  Mrs.  Lannithorne  said  I  should  ask  you  if  you 
thought  Ruth  had  a  fighting  chance  for  happiness  with  me. 
She  does  n't  want  Ruth  to  marry  anybody,  you  see.  My 


18  THE  PRELIMINARIES 

father  —  my  father*  —  Oliver's  voice  shook  with  his  con 
sciousness  of  the  cruelty  of  what  was  to  follow,  but  he 
forced  himself  to  steadiness  and  got  the  words  out  — 
'said  I  was  to  ask  you  what  a  man  wants  in  the  family  of 
the  woman  he  marries.  He  said  you  knew  what  was  what, 
and  I  should  ask  you  what  to  do. ' 

Lannithorne's  face  was  very  grave,  and  his  troubled  gaze 
sought  the  floor.  Oliver,  convicted  of  brutality  and  con 
science-smitten,  hurried  on,  'And  now  that  I've  seen  you, 
I  want  to  ask  you  a  few  things  for  myself,  Mr.  Lanni- 
thorne.  I  —  I  believe  you  know. ' 

The  man  looked  up  and  held  up  an  arresting  hand. 
'  Let  me  clear  the  way  for  you  a  little, '  he  said.  '  It  was  a 
hard  thing  for  you  to  come  and  seek  me  out  in  this  place. 
I  like  your  coming.  Most  young  men  would  have  refused, 
or  come  in  a  different  spirit.  I  want  you  to  understand 
that  if  in  Ruth's  eyes,  and  my  wife's,  and  your  father's, 
my  counsel  has  value,  it  is  because  they  think  I  see  things 
as  they  are.  And  that  means,  first  of  all,  that  I  know  my 
self  for  a  man  who  committed  a  crime,  and  is  paying  the 
penalty.  I  am  satisfied  to  be  paying  it.  As  I  see  justice, 
it  is  just.  So,  if  I  seem  to  wince  at  your  necessary  allusions 
to  it,  that  is  part  of  the  price.  I  don't  want  you  to  feel 
that  you  are  blundering  or  hurting  me  more  than  is  neces 
sary.  You  have  got  to  lay  the  thing  before  me  as  it  is. ' 

Something  in  the  words,  in  the  dry,  patient  manner,  in 
the  endurance  of  the  man's  face,  touched  Oliver  to  the 
quick  and  made  him  feel  all  manner  of  new  things:  such  as 
a  sense  of  the  moral  poise  of  the  universe,  acquiescence  in 
its  retributions,  and  a  curious  pride,  akin  to  Ruth's  own, 
in  a  man  who  could  meet  him  after  this  fashion,  in  this 
place. 

'Thank  you,  Mr.  Lannithorne, '  he  said.  'You  see,  it's 
this  way,  sir.  Mrs.  Lannithorne  says  — 


THE  PRELIMINARIES  19 

And  he  went  on  eagerly  to  set  forth  his  new  problems  as 
they  had  been  stated  to  him. 

'Well,  there  you  have  it,'  he  concluded  at  last.  'For 
myself,  the  things  they  said  opened  chasms  and  abysses. 
Mrs.  Lannithorne  seemed  to  think  I  would  hurt  Ruth. 
My  father  seemed  to  think  Ruth  would  hurt  me.  Is  mar 
ried  life  something  to  be  afraid  of?  When  I  look  at  Ruth, 
I  am  sure  everything  is  all  right.  It  may  be  miserable  for 
other  people,  but  how  could  it  be  miserable  for  Ruth  and 
me?' 

Peter  Lannithorne  looked  at  the  young  man  long  and 
thoughtfully  again  before  he  answered.  Oliver  felt  him 
self  measured  and  estimated,  but  not  found  wanting. 
When  the  man  spoke,  it  was  slowly  and  with  difficulty, 
as  if  the  habit  of  intimate,  convincing  speech  had  been  so 
long  disused  that  the  effort  was  painful.  The  sentences 
seemed  wrung  out  of  him,  one  by  one. 

'They  haven't  the  point  of  view,'  he  said.  'It  is  life 
that  is  the  great  adventure.  Not  love,  not  marriage,  not 
business.  They  are  just  chapters  in  the  book.  The  main 
thing  is  to  take  the  road  fearlessly,  —  to  have  courage  to 
live  one's  life. ' 

'Courage?' 

Lannithorne  nodded. 

'That  is  the  great  word.  Don't  you  see  what  ails  your 
father's  point  of  view,  and  my  wife's?  One  wants  absolute 
security  in  one  way  for  Ruth;  the  other  wants  absolute 
security  in  another  way  for  you.  And  security  —  why, 
it's  just  the  one  thing  a  human  being  can't  have,  the  thing 
that's  the  damnation  of  him  if  he  gets  it !  The  reason  it  is 
so  hard  for  a  rich  man  to  enter  the  kingdom  of  Heaven  is 
that  he  has  that  false  sense  of  security.  To  demand  it  just 
disintegrates  a  man.  I  don't  know  why.  It  does. ' 

Oliver  shook  his  head  uncertainly. 


20  THE  PRELIMINARIES 

*  I  don't  quite  follow  you,  sir.  Ought  n't  one  to  try  to  be 
safe?' 

'  One  ought  to  try,  yes.  That  is  common  prudence.  But 
the  point  is  that,  whatever  you  do  or  get,  you  are  n't  after 
all  secure.  There  is  no  such  condition,  and  the  harder 
you  demand  it,  the  more  risk  you  run.  So  it  is  up  to  a 
man  to  take  all  reasonable  precautions  about  his  money, 
or  his  happiness,  or  his  life,  and  trust  the  rest.  What  every 
man  in  the  world  is  looking  for  is  the  sense  of  having  the 
mastery  over  life.  But  I  tell  you,  boy,  there  is  only  one 
thing  that  really  gives  it ! ' 

'And  that  is—?' 

Lannithorne  hesitated  perceptibly.  For  the  thing  he 
was  about  to  tell  this  undisciplined  lad  was  his  most  pre 
cious  possession;  it  was  the  piece  of  wisdom  for  which  he 
had  paid  with  the  years  of  his  life.  No  man  parts  lightly 
with  such  knowledge. 

'  It  comes, '  he  said,  with  an  effort,  '  with  the  knowledge 
of  our  power  to  endure.  That's  it.  You  are  safe  only  when 
you  can  stand  everything  that  can  happen  to  you.  Then  and 
then  only !  Endurance  is  the  measure  of  a  man. ' 

Oliver's  heart  swelled  within  him  as  he  listened,  and  his 
face  shone,  for  these  words  found  his  young  soul  where  it 
lived.  The  chasms  and  abysses  in  his  path  suddenly  van 
ished,  and  the  road  lay  clear  again,  winding  uphill,  wind 
ing  down,  but  always  lit  for  Ruth  and  him  by  the  light  in 
each  other's  eyes.  For  surely  neither  Ruth  nor  he  could 
ever  fail  in  courage! 

'Sometimes  I  think  it  is  harder  to  endure  what  we  de 
serve,  like  me/  said  Lannithorne,  'than  what  WTC  don't.  I 
was  afraid,  you  see,  afraid  for  my  wife  and  all  of  them. 
Anyhow,  take  my  word  for  it.  Courage  is  security.  There 
is  no  other  kind/ 

'Then  — Ruth  and  I—' 


THE  PRELIMINARIES  21 

'Ruth  is  the  core  of  my  heart ! '  said  Lannithorne  thickly. 
'I  would  rather  die  than  have  her  suffer  more  than  she 
must.  But  she  must  take  her  chances  like  the  rest.  It  is 
the  law  of  things.  If  you  know  yourself  fit  for  her,  and  feel 
reasonably  sure  you  can  take  care  of  her,  you  have  a  right 
to  trust  the  future.  Myself,  I  believe  there  is  Some  One 
to  trust  it  to.  As  for  the  next  generation,  God  and  the 
mothers  look  after  that!  You  may  tell  your  father  so 
from  me.  And  you  mav  tell  my  wife  I  think  there  is  the 
stuff  of  a  man  in  you.  And  Ruth  —  tell  Ruth  — 

He  could  not  finish.  Oliver  reached  out  and  found  his 
hand  and  wrung  it  hard. 

'I'll  tell  her,  sir,  that  I  feel  about  her  father  as  she  does! 
And  that  he  approves  of  our  venture.  And  I'll  tell  myself, 
always,  what  you've  just  told  me.  Why,  it  must  be  true! 
You  need  n't  be  afraid  I'll  forget  —  when  the  time  comes 
for  remembering.' 

Finding  his  way  out  of  the  prison  yard  a  few  minutes 
later,  Oliver  looked,  unseeing,  at  the  high  walls  that  soared 
against  the  blue  spring  sky.  He  could  not  realize  them, 
there  was  such  a  sense  of  light,  air,  space,  in  his  spirit. 

Apparently,  he  was  just  where  he  had  been  an  hour  be 
fore,  with  all  his  battles  still  to  fight,  but  really  he  knew 
they  were  already  won,  for  his  weapon  had  been  forged 
and  put  in  his  hand.  He  left  his  boyhood  behind  him  as  he 
passed  that  stern  threshold,  for  the  last  hour  had  made  a 
man  of  him,  and  a  prisoner  had  given  him  the  master-key 
that  opens  every  door. 


BUTTERCUP-NIGHT 

BY   JOHN   GALSWORTHY 

WHY  is  it  that  in  some  places  there  is  such  a  feeling  of 
life  being  all  one;  not  merely  a  long  picture-show  for  human 
eyes,  but  a  single  breathing,  glowing,  growing  thing,  of 
which  we  are  no  more  important  a  part  than  the  swallows 
and  magpies,  the  foals  and  sheep  in  the  meadows,  the 
sycamores  and  ash  trees  and  flowers  in  the  fields,  the  rocks 
and  little  bright  streams,  or  even  the  long  fleecy  clouds  and 
their  soft-shouting  drivers,  the  winds? 

True,  we  register  these  parts  of  being,  and  they  —  so  far 
as  we  know  —  do  not  register  us ;  yet  it  is  impossible  to 
feel,  in  such  places  as  I  speak  of,  the  busy,  dry,  complacent 
sense  of  being  all  that  matters,  which  in  general  we  humans 
have  so  strongly. 

In  these  rare  spots,  that  are  always  in  the  remote  coun 
try,  untouched  by  the  advantages  of  civilization,  one  is 
conscious  of  an  enwrapping  web  or  mist  of  spirit,  the  glam 
orous  and  wistful  wraith  of  all  the  vanished  shapes  which 
once  dwelt  there  in  such  close  comradeship. 

It  was  Sunday  of  an  early  June  when  I  first  came  on  one 
such,  far  down  in  the  West  country.  I  had  walked  with 
my  knapsack  twenty  miles ;  and,  there  being  no  room  at  the 
tiny  inn  of  the  very  little  village,  they  directed  me  to  a 
wicket  gate,  through  which  by  a  path  leading  down  a  field 
I  would  come  to  a  farmhouse  where  I  might  find  lodging. 
The  moment  I  got  into  that  field  I  felt  within  me  a  peculiar 
contentment,  and  sat  down  on  a  rock  to  let  the  feeling 
grow.  In  an  old  holly  tree  rooted  to  the  bank  about  fifty 
yards  away,  two  magpies  evidently  had  a  nest,  for  they 


BUTTERCUP-NIGHT  23 

were  coming  and  going,  avoiding  my  view  as  much  as 
possible,  yet  with  a  certain  stealthy  confidence  which  made 
one  feel  that  they  had  long  prescriptive  right  to  that  dwell 
ing-place. 

Around,  as  far  as  one  could  see,  there  was  hardly  a  yard  of 
level  ground;  all  was  hill  and  hollow,  that  long  ago  had  been 
reclaimed  from  the  moor;  and  against  the  distant  folds  of 
the  hills  the  farmhouse  and  its  thatched  barns  were  just 
visible,  embowered  amongst  beeches  and  some  dark  trees, 
with  a  soft  bright  crown  of  sunlight  over  the  whole.  A 
gentle  wind  brought  a  faint  rustling  up  from  those  beeches, 
and  from  a  large  lime  tree  that  stood  by  itself;  on  this  wind 
some  little  snowy  clouds,  very  high  and  fugitive  in  that 
blue  heaven,  wrere  always  moving  over.  But  what  struck 
me  most  were  the  buttercups.  Never  was  field  so  lighted 
up  by  those  tiny  lamps,  those  little  bright  pieces  of  flower 
china  out  of  the  Great  Pottery.  They  covered  the  whole 
ground,  as  if  the  sunlight  had  fallen  bodily  from  the  sky, 
in  tens  of  millions  of  gold  patines;  and  the  fields  below  as 
well,  down  to  what  was  evidently  a  stream,  were  just  as 
thick  with  the  extraordinary  warmth  and  glory  of  them. 

Leaving  the  rock  at  last,  I  went  toward  the  house.  It 
was  long  and  low  and  rather  sad,  standing  in  a  garden  all 
mossy  grass  and  buttercups,  with  a  few  rhododendrons  and 
flowery  shrubs,  below  a  row  of  fine  old  Irish  yews.  On  the 
stone  verandah  a  gray  sheep-dog  and  a  very  small  golden- 
haired  child  were  sitting  close  together,  absorbed  in  each 
other.  A  pleasant  woman  came  in  answer  to  my  knock, 
and  told  me,  in  a  soft,  slurring  voice,  that  I  might  stay  the 
night;  and  dropping  my  knapsack,  I  went  out  again. 

Through  an  old  gate  under  a  stone  arch  I  came  on  the 
farmyard,  quite  deserted  save  for  a  couple  of  ducks  moving 
slowly  down  a  gutter  in  the  sunlight;  and  noticing  the 
upper  half  of  a  stable-door  open,  I  went  across,  in  search  of 


24  BUTTERCUP-NIGHT 

something  living.  There,  in  a  rough  loose-box,  on  thick 
straw,  lay  a  long-tailed  black  mare  with  the  skin  and  head 
of  a  thoroughbred.  She  was  swathed  in  blankets,  and  her 
face,  all  cut  about  the  cheeks  and  over  the  eyes,  rested  on  an 
ordinary  human's  pillow,  held  by  a  bearded  man  in  shirt 
sleeves;  while,  leaning  against  the  whitewashed  walls,  sat 
fully  a  dozen  other  men,  perfectly  silent,  very  gravely  and 
intently  gazing.  The  mare's  eyes  were  half  closed,  and 
what  could  be  seen  of  them  dull  and  blueish,  as  though  she 
had  been  through  a  long  time  of  pain.  Save  for  her  rapid 
breathing,  she  lay  quite  still,  but  her  neck  and  ears  were 
streaked  with  sweat,  and  every  now  and  then  her  hind-legs 
quivered  spasmodically.  Seeing  me  at  the  door,  she  raised 
her  head,  uttering  a  queer  half-human  noise,  but  the 
bearded  man  at  once  put  his  hand  on  her  forehead,  and 
with  a  '  Woa,  my  dear — woa,  my  pretty!'  pressed  it  down 
again,  while  with  the  other  hand  he  plumped  up  the  pillow 
for  her  cheek.  And,  as  the  mare  obediently  let  fall  her  head, 
one  of  the  men  said  in  a  low  voice,  *  I  never  see  anything  so 
like  a  Christian!'  and  the  others  echoed,  in  chorus,  'Like  a 
Christian — 'like  a  Christian!' 

It  w^ent  to  one's  heart  to  watch  her,  and  I  moved  off  down 
the  farm  lane  into  an  old  orchard,  where  the  apple  trees 
were  still  in  bloom,  with  bees  • — •  very  small  ones  —  busy  on 
the  blossoms,  whose  petals  were  dropping  on  the  dock  leaves 
and  buttercups  in  the  long  grass.  Climbing  over  the  bank 
at  the  far  end,  I  found  myself  in  a  meadow  the  like  of  which 
— •  so  wild  and  yet  so  lush  —  I  think  I  have  never  seen. 
Along  one  hedge  of  its  meandering  length  was  a  mass  of 
pink  mayflower;  and  between  two  little  running  streams 
grew  quantities  of  yellow  water-iris- — •* daggers,'  as  they 
call  them ;  the  *  print-frock'  orchid,  too,  was  everywhere  in 
the  grass,  and  always  the  buttercups.  Great  stones  coated 
with  yellowish  moss  were  strewn  among  the  ash  trees  and 


BUTTERCUP-NIGHT  25 

dark  hollies;  and  through  a  grove  of  beeches  on  the  far  side, 
such  as  Corot  might  have  painted,  a  girl  was  running,  with 
a  youth  after  her,  who  jumped  down  over  the  bank  and 
vanished.  Thrushes,  blackbirds,  yaffles,  cuckoos,  and  one 
other  very  monotonous  little  bird  were  in  full  song;  and  this, 
with  the  sound  of  the  streams  and  the  wind,  and  the  shapes 
of  the  rocks  and  trees,  the  colors  of  the  flowers,  and  the 
warmth  of  the  sun,  gave  one  a  feeling  of  being  lost  in  a  very 
wilderness  of  nature.  Some  ponies  came  slowly  from  the 
far  end,  —  tangled,  gypsy-headed  little  creatures, — stared, 
and  went  off  again  at  speed.  It  was  just  one  of  those  places 
where  any  day  the  Spirit  of  all  Nature  might  start  up  in 
one  of  those  white  gaps  that  separate  the  trees  and  rocks. 
But  though  I  sat  a  long  time  waiting  —  hoping  —  She  did 
not  come. 

They  were  all  gone  from  the  stable  when  I  went  back 
up  to  the  farm,  except  the  bearded  nurse  and  one  tall  fellow, 
who  might  have  been  the  *  Dying  Gaul'  as  he  crouched 
there  in  the  straw;  and  the  mare  was  sleeping  —  her  head 
between  her  nurse's  knees. 

That  night  I  woke  at  two  o'clock  to  find  it  almost  as 
bright  as  day,  with  moonlight  coming  in  through  the 
flimsy  curtains.  And,  smitten  with  the  feeling  that  comes 
to  us  creatures  of  routine  so  rarely,  — •  of  what  beauty  and 
strangeness  we  let  slip  by  without  ever  stretching  out  hand 
to  grasp  it,  —  I  got  up,  dressed,  stole  downstairs,  and  out. 

Never  was  such  a  night  of  frozen  beauty,  never  such 
dream-tranquillity.  The  wind  had  dropped,  and  the  si 
lence  was  such  that  one  hardly  liked  to  tread  even  on  the 
grass.  From  the  lawn  and  fields  there  seemed  to  be  a  mist 
rising  —  in  truth,  the  moonlight  caught  on  the  dewy  butter 
cups;  and  across  this  ghostly  radiance  the  shadows  of  the 
yew  trees  fell  in  dense  black  bars. 

Suddenly  I  bethought  me  of  the  mare.     How  was  she 


26  BUTTERCUP-NIGHT 

faring,  this  marvelous  night?  Very  softly  opening  the  door 
into  the  yard,  I  tiptoed  across.  A  light  was  burning  in 
her  box.  And  I  could  hear  her  making  the  same  half-hu 
man  noise  she  had  made  in  the  afternoon,  as  if  wondering 
at  her  feelings;  and  instantly  the  voice  of  the  bearded 
man  talking  to  her  as  one  might  talk  to  a  child :  '  Oover, 
my  darlin' ;  yu' ve  a-been  long  enough  o'  that  side.  Wa-ay, 
my  swate  —  yu  let  old  Jack  turn  yu,  then ! '  Then  came 
a  scuffling  in  the  straw,  a  thud,  that  half -human  sigh,  and 
his  voice  again:  'Putt  your  'ead  to  piller,  that's  my  dandy 
gel.  Old  Jack  would  n'  'urt  yu;  no  more  'n  if  yu  was  the 
Queen ! '  Then  only  her  quick  breathing  could  be  heard, 
and  his  cough  and  mutter,  as  he  settled  down  once  more 
to  his  long  vigil. 

I  crept  very  softly  up  to  the  window,  but  she  heard  me  at 
once;  and  at  the  movement  of  her  head  the  old  fellow  sat 
up,  blinking  his  eyes  out  of  the  bush  of  his  grizzled  hair  and 
beard.  Opening  the  door,  I  said,  — 

'May  I  come  in?' 

'Oo  ay!     Come  in,  zurr,  if  yu'm  a  mind  tu.' 

I  sat  down  beside  him  on  a  sack.  And  for  some  time  we 
did  not  speak,  taking  each  other  in.  One  of  his  legs  was 
lame,  so  that  he  had  to  keep  it  stretched  out  all  the  time; 
and  awfully  tired  he  looked,  gray-tired. 

'  You're  a  great  nurse ! '  I  said  at  last.  '  It  must  be  tiring 
work,  watching  out  here  all  night.' 

His  eyes  twinkled;  they  were  of  that  bright  gray  kind 
through  which  the  soul  looks  out. 

'Aw,  no!'  he  said.  'Ah,  don't  grudge  it  vur  a  dumb 
animal.  Poor  things  they  can't  'elp  theirzel  ves.  Many's 
the  naight  ah've  zat  up  with  'orses  and  beasts  tu.  JT  es 
en  me — •  can't  bear  to  zee  dumb  creatures  zuffer.'  And 
laying  his  hand  on  the  mare's  ears, '  They  zay  'orses  '  ave 
n't  no  souls.  'T  es  my  belief  they've  souls  zame  as  us. 


BUTTERCUP-NIGHT  27 

Many's  the  Christian  ah've  seen  ain't  got  the  soul  of  an 
'orse.  Same  with  the  beasts — •  an'  the  ship;  't  es  only 
they'm  can't  spake  their  minds.' 

'And  where,'  I  said,  'do  you  think  they  go  to  when  they 
die?' 

He  looked  at  me  a  little  queerly,  fancying  perhaps  that 
I  was  leading  him  into  some  trap;  making  sure,  too,  that  I 
was  a  real  stranger,  without  power  over  his  body  or  soul  — • 
for  humble  folk  must  be  careful  in  the  country;  then,  re 
assured,  and  nodding  in  his  beard,  he  answered  know 
ingly,— 

'Ah  don't  think  they  goes  so  very  far!' 

'  Why  ?    Do  you  ever  see  their  spirits ? ' 

'Naw,  naw;  I  never  zeen  none;  but,  for  all  they  zay,  ah 
don't  think  none  of  us  goes  such  a  brave  way  off.  There's 
room  for  all,  dead  or  alive.  An'  there's  Christians  ah've 
zeen — well,  ef  they'm  not  dead  for  gude,  then  neither  are 
n't  dumb  animals,  for  sure.' 

'  And  rabbits,  squirrels,  birds,  even  insects?  How  about 
them?' 

He  was  silent,  as  if  I  had  carried  him  a  little  beyond  the 
confines  of  his  philosophy;  then  shook  his  head. 

"T  es  all  a  bit  dimsy.  But  you  watch  dumb  animate, 
even  the  laste  littlest  one,  an'  yu'll  zee  they  knows  a  lot 
more'n  what  we  du;  an'  they  du's  things  tu  that  putts 
shame  on  a  man  's  often  as  not.  They've  a  got  that  in 
them  as  passes  show.'  Not  noticing  my  stare  at  that  un 
conscious  plagiarism,  he  went  on, '  Ah'd  zooner  zet  up  of  a 
naight  with  an  'orse  than  with  an  'uman  — •  they've  more 
zense,  and  patience.'  And  stroking  the  mare's  forehead, 
he  added,  'Now,  my  dear,  time  for  yu  t'  'ave  yure  bottle.' 

I  waited  to  see  her  take  her  draft,  and  lay  her  head  down 
once  more  on  the  pillow.  Then,  hoping  he  would  get  a 
sleep,  I  rose  to  go. 


28  BUTTERCUP-NIGHT 

'Aw,  't  es  nothin'  much,'  he  said,  'this  time  o'  year;  not 
like  in  winter.  'T  will  come  day  before  yu  know,  these 
buttercup-nights.' 

And  twinkling  up  at  me  out  of  his  kindly  bearded  face, 
he  settled  himself  again  into  the  straw. 

I  stole  a  look  back  at  his  rough  figure  propped  against 
the  sack,  with  the  mare's  head  down  beside  his  knee,  at  her 
swathed  black  body,  and  the  gold  of  the  straw,  the  white 
walls,  and  dusky  nooks  and  shadows  of  that  old  stable 
illumined  by  the  dimsy  light  of  the  old  lantern.  And  with 
the  sense  of  having  seen  something  holy,  I  crept  away  up 
into  the  field  where  I  had  lingered  the  day  before,  and  sat 
down  on  the  same  halfway  rock. 

Close  on  dawn  it  was,  the  moon  still  sailing  wide  over  the 
moor,  and  the  flowers  of  this  '  buttercup-night'  fast  closed, 
not  taken  in  at  all  by  her  cold  glory !  Most  silent  hour  of 
all  the  twenty -four  —  when  the  soul  slips  half  out  of  sheath, 
and  hovers  in  the  cool;  when  the  spirit  is  most  in  tune  with 
what,  soon  or  late,  happens  to  all  spirits;  hour  when  a  man 
cares  least  whether  or  no  he  be  alive,  as  we  understand  the 
word. 

'  None  of  us  goes  such  a  brave  way  off  —  there's  room  for 
all,  dead  or  alive. '  Though  it  was  almost  unbearably  color 
less,  and  quiet,  there  was  warmth  in  thinking  of  those 
words  of  his;  in  the  thought,  too,  of  the  millions  of  living 
things  snugly  asleep  all  round;  warmth  in  realizing  that 
unanimity  of  sleep.  Insects  and  flowers,  birds,  men, 
beasts,  the  very  leaves  on  the  trees — •  away  in  slumberland. 

Waiting  for  the  first  bird  to  chirrup,  one  had  perhaps 
even  a  stronger  feeling  than  in  daytime  of  the  unity  and 
communion  of  all  life,  of  the  subtle  brotherhood  of  living 
things  that  fall  all  together  into  oblivion,  and,  all  together, 
wake.  When  dawn  comes,  while  moonlight  is  still  powder 
ing  the  world's  face,  quite  a  long  time  passes  before  one 


BUTTERCUP-NIGHT  29 

realizes  how  the  quality  of  the  light  has  changed;  so  it  was 
day  before  I  knew  it.  Then  the  sun  came  up  above  the 
hills;  dew  began  to  sparkle,  and  color  to  stain  the  sky. 
That  first  praise  of  the  sun  from  every  bird  and  leaf  and 
blade  of  grass,  the  tremulous  flush  and  chime  of  dawn! 
One  has  strayed  so  far  from  the  heart  of  things,  that  it 
comes  as  something  strange  and  wonderful!  Indeed,  I 
noticed  that  the  beasts  and  birds  gazed  at  me  as  if  I  simply 
could  not  be  there,  at  this  hour  that  so  belonged  to  them. 
And  to  me,  too,  they  seemed  strange  and  new  —  with  that 
in  them  'that  passed  show,'  and  as  of  a  world  where  man 
did  not  exist,  or  existed  only  as  just  another  form  of  life, 
another  sort  of  beast.  It  was  one  of  those  revealing  mo 
ments  when  we  see  our  proper  place  in  the  scheme;  go  past 
our  truly  irreligious  thought:  'Man,  hub  of  the  Universe!' 
which  has  founded  most  religions.  One  of  those  moments 
when  our  supreme  importance  will  not  wash  either  in  the 
bath  of  purest  spiritual  ecstasy,  or  in  the  clear  fluid  of 
scientific  knowledge;  and  one  sees  clear,  with  the  eyes  of 
true  religion,  man  playing  his  little,  not  unworthy,  part  in 
the  great  game  of  Perfection. 

But  just  then  began  the  crowning  glory  of  that  dawn  — 
the  opening  and  lighting  of  the  buttercups.  Not  one  did  I 
actually  see  unclose,  yet,  all  of  a  sudden,  they  were  awake, 
the  fields  once  more  a  blaze  of  gold. 


HEPATICAS 

BY  ANNE  DOUGLAS  SEDGWICK 


OTHER  people's  sons  were  coming  home  for  the  three  or 
four  days'  leave.  The  first  gigantic  struggle — •  furious 
onslaught  and  grim  resistance  —  was  over.  Paris,  pale, 
and  slightly  shuddering  still,  stood  safe.  Calais  was  not 
taken,  and,  dug  into  their  trenches,  it  was  evident  that  the 
opposing  armies  would  lie  face  to  face,  with  no  decisive  en 
counter  possible  until  the  spring. 

There  was,  with  all  their  beauty  and  terror,  an  element 
of  the  facetious  in  these  unexpected  holidays,  of  the  matter- 
of-factness,  the  freedom  from  strain  or  sentiment  that  was 
the  English  oddity  and  the  English  strength.  Men  who 
had  known  the  horrors  of  4fee  retreat  from  Mons  or  the 
carnage  of  Ypres,  who  had  not  taken  off  their  clothes  for 
ten  days  at  a  stretch  or  slept  for  four  nights,  came  home 
from  trenches  knee-deep  in  mud,  from  battlefields  heaped 
with  unburied  dead,  and  appeared  immaculate  and  cheer 
ful  at  breakfast;  a  little  sober  and  preoccupied,  perhaps; 
touched,  perhaps,  with  strangeness;  but  ready  for  the  valor 
ous  family  jest,  and  alluding  to  the  wTar  as  if,  while  some 
thing  too  solemn  for  adequate  comment,  it  were  yet  some 
thing  that  lent  itself  to  laughter.  One  did  such  funny 
things,  and  saw  them;  of  the  other  things  one  did  not 
speak;  and  there  was  the  huge  standing  joke  of  an  enemy 
who  actually  hated  one.  These  grave  and  cheerful  young 
men  hated  nobody;  but  they  were  very  eager  to  go  back 
again;  and  they  were  all  ready,  not  only  to  die  but  to  die 
good-humoredly.  From  the  demeanor  of  mothers  and 


HEPATICAS  31 

wives  and  sisters  it  was  evident  that  nothing  would  be  said 
or  done  to  make  this  readiness  difficult;  but  Mrs.  Bradley, 
who  showed  serenity  to  the  world  and  did  not,  even  when 
alone,  allow  herself  to  cry,  suspected  that  the  others,  be 
neath  their  smiles,  carried  hearts  as  heavy  with  dread  as 
her  own. 

It  had  been  heavy,  with  hope  now  as  well  as  with  dread, 
for  the  past  week.  It  was  a  week  since  she  had  last  heard 
from  Jack.  Mrs.  Crawley,  over  the  hill,  had  had  her  wire, 
and  her  husband  was  now  with  her;  and  Lady  Wrexham 
expected  her  boy  to-morrow.  There  was  no  certainty  at 
all  as  regarded  herself;  yet  at  any  moment  she  might  have 
a  wire;  and  feeling  to-day  the  stress  of  waiting  too  great  to 
be  borne  in  passivity,  she  left  her  books  and  letters,  and 
put  on  her  gardening  shoes  and  gloves,  and  went  out  to 
her  borders. 

For  weeks  now  the  incessant  rain  had  made  the  relief  and 
solace  of  gardening  almost  an  impossibility;  but  to-day  was 
mild  and  clear.  There  was  no  radiance  in  the  air;  curtains 
of  pearly  mist  shut  out  the  sky;  yet  here  and  there  a  soft 
opening  in  the  white  showed  a  pale,  far  blue,  gentle  and 
remote  as  the  gaze  of  a  wandering  goddess,  and  the  hills 
seemed  to  smile  quietly  up  at  the  unseen  sun.  Mrs.  Brad 
ley,  as  she  went  along  the  river-path,  could  look  across  at 
the  hills;  the  river-path  and  the  hills  were  the  great  feature 
of  Dorrington  —  the  placid,  comely  red  brick  house  to 
which  she  and  Jack  had  come  fifteen  years  ago,  after  the 
death  of  her  husband  in  India.  Enclosed  by  woods,  and 
almost  catching  sight  of  the  road,  — •  from  its  upper  win 
dows  and  over  its  old  brick  wall,  • — •  the  house  could  have 
seemed  to  her  too  commonplace  and  almost  suburban,  in 
spite  of  the  indubitably  old  oak-paneling  of  the  drawing- 
room,  had  it  not  been  for  the  river  and  the  hills.  Stepping 
out  on  to  the  lawn  from  the  windows  of  the  drawing-room, 


32  HEPATICAS 

she  and  Jack,  on  that  April  day,  had  found  themselves  con 
fronting  both  • — •  the  limpid,  rapid  little  stream,  spanned 
near  the  house  by  its  mossy  bridge,  and  the  hills,  beyond 
the  meadows,  streaked  with  purple  woodlands  and  rising, 
above  the  woods,  to  slopes  russet,  fawn,  and  azure.  Jack, 
holding  her  by  the  hand,  had  pointed  at  once  with  an  eager 
*  Is  n't  it  pretty,  mummy ! '  — •  even  at  eight  he  had  cared 
almost  as  much  as  she,  and  extraordinarily  in  the  same 
way,  for  the  sights  of  the  country;  and  if  the  hills  had  not 
settled  the  question,  it  wras  settled,  quite  finally,  ten  min 
utes  later,  by  the  white  hepaticas. 

They  had  come  upon  them  suddenly,  after  their  tour  of 
the  walled  kitchen  garden  and  their  survey  of  the  lawn 
with  its  ugly  shrubberies,  • — •  now  long  forgotten,  —  pene 
trating  a  thicket  of  hazels  and  finding  themselves  in  an  open 
ing  under  trees  where  neighboring  woods  looked  at  them 
over  an  old  stone  wall,  and  where,  from  an  old  stone  bench, 
one  could  see  the  river.  The  ground  was  soft  with  the 
fallen  leaves  of  many  an  autumn;  a  narrow  path  ran,  half 
obliterated,  down  to  the  river;  and  among  the  faded  brown, 
everywhere,  rose  the  thick  clusters,  the  dark  leaves,  and  the 
snowy  flowers  —  poignant,  amazing  in  their  beauty. 

She  and  Jack  had  stopped  short  to  gaze.  She  had  never 
seen  such  white  hepaticas,  or  so  many,  or  so  placed.  And 
Jack,  presently,  lifting  his  dear  nut-brown  head  and  nut- 
brown  eyes,  had  said,  gazing  up  at  her  as  he  had  gazed  at 
the  flowers,  'They  are  just  like  you,  mummy.' 

She  had  felt  at  once  that  they  were  like  her;  more  like 
than  the  little  boy's  instinct  could  grasp.  He  had  thought 
of  the  darkness  and  whiteness ;  her  widow's  weeds  and  pale 
face  had  suggested  that;  but  he  could  not  know  the  sorrow, 
the  longing,  the  earthly  sense  of  irreparable  loss,  the  heav 
enly  sense  of  a  possession  unalterably  hers,  that  the  dark, 
melancholy  leaves  and  celestial  whiteness  of  the  flowers  ex- 


>HJ  HEPATIC  A$  33 

pressed  to  her.  Tears  had  risen  to  her  eyes  and  she  had 
stooped  and  kissed  her  child,  —  how  like  her  husband's 
that  little  face !  —  and  had  said,  after  a  moment,  *  We  must 
never  leave  them,  Jack.' 

They  had  never  left  them.  Dorrington  had  been  their 
home  for  fifteen  years,  and  the  hepaticas  the  heart  of  it,  it 
had  always  seemed  to  them  both;  the  loveliest  ritual  of  the 
year  that  early  spring  one  when,  in  the  hazel  copse,  they 
would  find  the  white  hepaticas  again  in  flower.  And  of  all 
the  autumnal  labors  none  were  sweeter  than  those  which 
cherished  and  divided  and  protected  the  beloved  flowers. 

"M^s.  Bradley,  to-day,  worked  in  her  long  border,  weed 
ing,  troweling,  placing  belated  labels.  She  was  dressed  in 
black,  her  straw  hat  bound  beneath  her  chin  by  a  ribbon 
and  her  soft  gardening  gloves  rolling  back  from  her  firm, 
white  wrists.  Her  gestures  expressed  a  calm  energy,  an 
accurate  grace.  She  was  tall,  and  when  she  raised  herself 
to  look  over  the  meadows  at  the  hills,  she  showed  small, 
decisive  features,  all  marked,  in  the  pallor  of  her  face,  as  if 
with  the  delicate,  neutral  emphasis  of  an  etching:  the  gray, 
scrutinizing  eyes,  the  charming  yet  ugly  nose,  the  tranquil 
mouth  which  had,  at  the  corners,  a  little  drop,  half  sweet, 
half  bitter,  as  if  with  tears  repressed  or  a  summoned  smile. 
Squared  at  brow  and  chin,  it  would,  but  for  the  mildness  of 
the  gaze,  have  been  an  imperious  face;  and  her  head,  its 
whitened  hair  drawn  back  and  looped  in  wide  braids  be 
hind,  had  an  air  at  once  majestic  and  unworldly. 

She  had  worked  for  over  an  hour  and  the  last  label  was 
set  beside  a  precious  clump  of  iris.  The  hazel  copse  lay 
near  by;  and  gathering  up  her  tools,  drawing  off  her  wet 
gloves,  she  followed  the  path  under  the  leafless  branches 
and  among  the  hepaticas  to  the  stone  bench,  where,  sinking 
down,  she  knew  that  she  was  very  tired.  She  could  see, 
below  the  bank,  the  dark,  quick  stream;  a  pale,  diffused 


34  HEPATICAS 

light  in  the  sky  showed  where  the  sun  was  dropping  toward 
the  hills. 

Where  was  Jack  at  this  moment,  this  quiet  moment  of  a 
monotonous  English  winter  day?  —  so  like  the  days  of  all 
the  other  years  that  it  was  impossible  to  think  of  what  was 
happening  a  few  hours'  journey  away  across  the  Channel. 
Impossible  to  think  of  it;  yet  the  thick  throb  of  her  heart 
spoke  to  the  full  of  its  significance.  She  had  told  herself 
from  the  beginning, — passionate,  rebellious  creature  as,  at 
bottom,  she  knew  herself  to  be,  always  in  need  of  discipline 
and  only  in  these  later  years  schooled  to  a  control  and  sub 
mission  that,  in  her  youth,  she  would  have  believed  impos 
sible  to  her,  —  she  had  told  herself,  when  he  had  gone  from 
her,  that,  as  a  soldier's  widow,  she  must  see  her  soldier  son 
go  to  death.  She  must  give  him  to  that;  be  ready  for  it; 
and  if  he  came  back  to  her  it  would  be  as  if  he  were  born 
again  —  a  gift,  a  grace,  unexpected  and  unclaimed.  She 
must  feel,  for  herself  as  well  as  for  her  country,  that  these 
days  of  dread  were  also  days  of  a  splendor  and  beauty  un 
matched  by  any  in  England's  history,  and  that  a  soldier's 
widow  must  ask  for  no  more  glorious  fate  for  her  son  than 
death  in  such  a  cause.  She  had  told  herself  all  this  many 
times;  yet,  as  she  sat  there,  her  hands  folded  on  her  lap, 
her  eyes  on  the  stream  below,  she  felt  that  she  was  now 
merely  motherhood,  tense,  huddled,  throbbing  and  longing, 
longing  for  its  child. 

Then,  suddenly,  she  heard  Jack's  footsteps.  They  came, 
quick  and  light,  along  the  garden  path;  they  entered  the 
wood;  they  were  near,  but  softened  by  the  fallen  leaves. 
And,  half  rising,  afraid  of  her  own  joy,  she  hardly  knew  that 
she  saw  him  before  she  was  in  his  arms ;  and  it  was  better  to 
meet  thus,  in  the  blindness  and  darkness  of  their  embrace, 
her  cheek  pressed  against  his  hair,  his  head  buried  close 
between  her  neck  and  shoulder. 


HEPATICAS  55 

*  Jack !  —  Jack ! '  she  heard  herself  say. 

He  said  nothing,  holding  her  tightly  to  him,  with  quick 
breaths;  and  even  after  she  had  opened  her  eyes  and  could 
look  down  at  him,  — •  her  own,  her  dear,  beautiful  Jack,  — 
could  see  the  nut-brown  head,  the  smooth  brown  cheek,  the 
firm  brown  hand  which  grasped  her,  he  did  not  for  a  long 
time  raise  his  head  and  look  at  her.  When,  at  last,  he  did 
look  up,  she  could  not  tell,  through  her  tears,  whether,  like 
herself,  he  was  trying  to  smile. 

They  sat  down  together  on  the  bench.  She  did  not  ask 
him  why  he  had  not  wired.  That  question  pressed  too 
sharply  on  her  heart;  to  ask  might  seem  to  reproach. 

*  Darling,  you  are  so  thin,  —  so  much  older,  —  but  you 
look  —  strong  and  well/ 

*  We're  all  of  us  extraordinarily  fit,  mummy.  •  It's  whole 
some,  living  in  mud.' 

'And  wholesome  living  among  bursting  shells?  I  had 
your  last  letter  telling  of  that  miraculous  escape.' 

'There  have  been  a  lot  more  since  then.  Every  day 
seems  a  miracle  —  that  one's  alive  at  the  end  of  it.' 

'But  you  get  used  to  it?' 

'All  except  the  noise.  That  always  seems  to  daze  me 
still.  Some  of  our  fellows  are  deaf  from  it.  — -  You  heard 
of  Toppie,  mother?'  Jack  asked.. 

Toppie  was  Alan  Thorpe,  Jack's  nearest  friend.  He  had 
been  killed  ten  days  ago. 

'I  heard  it,  Jack.     Were  you  with  him?' 

'Yes.  It  was  in  a  bayonet  charge.  He  did  n't  suffer. 
A  bullet  went  right  through  him.  He  just  gave  a  little  cry 
and  fell.'  Jack's  voice  had  the  mildness  of  a  sorrow  which 
has  passed  beyond  the  capacity  for  emotion.  'We  found 
him  afterwards.  He  is  buried  out  there.' 

'You  must  tell  Frances  about  it,  Jack.     I  went  to  her  at 


36  HEPATICAS 

once/  Frances  was  Toppie's  sister.  'She  is  bearing  it  so 
bravely.' 

'I  must  write  to  her.     She  would  be  sure  to  be  plucky.' 

He  answered  all  her  questions,  sitting  closely  against  her, 
his  arm  around  her;  looking  down,  while  he  spoke,  and 
twisting,  as  had  always  been  his  boyish  way,  a  button  on 
her  coat.  He  was  at  that  enchanting  moment  of  young 
manhood  when  the  child  is  still  apparent  in  the  man.  His 
glance  was  shy,  yet  candid;  his  small,  firm  lips  had  a  child's 
gravity.  With  his  splendid  shoulders,  long  legs,  and  noble 
little  head,  he  was  yet  as  endearing  as  he  was  impressive. 
His  mother's  heart  ached  with  love  and  pride  and  fear  as 
she  gazed  at  him. 

And  a  question  came,  near  the  sharp  one,  yet  hoping  to 
evade  it :  — • 

*  Jack,  dearest,  how  long  will  you  be  with  me  ?  How  long 
is  the  leave? ' 

He  raised  his  eyes  then  and  looked  at  her;  a  curious  look. 
Something  in  it  blurred  her  mind  with  a  sense  of  some  other 
sort  of  fear. 

'Only  till  to-night,'  he  said. 

It  seemed  confusion  rather  than  pain  that  she  felt. 
'Only  till  to-night,  Jack?  But  Richard  Crawley  has  been 
back  for  three  days  already.  I  thought  they  gave  you 
longer? ' 

'I  know,  mummy.'  His  eyes  were  dropped  again  and 
his  hand  at  the  button  — •  did  it  tremble?  —  twisted  and 
untwisted.  '  I've  been  back  for  three  days  already.  —  I've 
been  in  London.' 

'  In  London? '  Her  breath  failed  her.  The  sense  of  alien 
fear  became  a  fog,  horrible,  suffocating.  'But  —  Jack  — 
why?' 

'I  did  n't  wire,  mummy,  because  I  knew  I'd  have  to 
be  there  for  most  of  my  time.  I  felt  that  I  could  n't  wire 


HEPATICAS  37 

and  tell  you.     I  felt  that  I  had  to  see  you  when  I  told  you. 
Mother  — -  I'm  married.  — •  I  came  back  to  get  married. 

—  I  was  married  this  morning.  —  O  mother,  can  you  ever 
forgive  me?' 

His  shaking  hands  held  her  and  his  eyes  could  not  meet 
hers. 

She  felt  the  blood  rush,  as  if  her  heart  had  been  divided 
with  a  sword,  to  her  throat,  to  her  eyes,  choking  her,  burn 
ing  her;  and  as  if  from  far  away  she  heard  her  own  voice 
saying,  after  a  little  time  had  passed,  *  There's  nothing  I 
could  n't  forgive  you,  Jack.  Tell  me.  Don't  be  afraid  of 
hurting  me.' 

He  held  her  tightly,  still  looking  down  as  he  said,  *  She  is 
a  dancer,  mother,  a  little  dancer.  It  was  in  London,  last 
summer.  A  lot  of  us  came  up  from  Aldershot 'together. 
She  was  in  the  chorus  of  one  of  those  musical  comedies. 
Mother,  you  can  never  understand.  But  it  was  n't  just 
low  and  vulgar.  She  was  so  lovely,  —  so  very  young,  — 
with  the  most  wonderful  golden  hair  and  the  sweetest  eyes. 

—  I  don't  know.  —  I  simply  went  off  my  head  when  I  saw 
her.     We  all  had  supper  together  afterwards.     Toppie 
knew  one  of  the  other  girls,  and  Dollie  was  there.     That's 
her  name  —  Dollie  Vaughan  —  her  stage  name.     Her  real 
name  was  Byles.     Her  people,  I  think,  were  little  trades 
people,  and  she'd  lost  her  father  and  mother,  and  an  aunt 
had  been  very  unkind.     She  told  me  all  about  it  that  night. 
Mother,  please  believe  just  this :  it  was  n't  only  the  obvious 
thing.  —  I  know  I  can't  explain.     But  you  remember, 
when  we  read  War  and  Peace?  —  his  broken  voice  groped 
for  the  analogy,  —  'you  remember  Natacha,  when  she  falls 
in  love  with  Anatole,  and  nothing  that  was  real  before  seems 
real,  and  she  is  ready  for  anything.     It  was  like  that.     It 
was  all  fairyland,  like  that.    No  one  thought  it  wrong.     It 
did  n't  seem  wrong.     Everything  went  together.' 


38  HEPATICAS 

She  had  gathered  his  hand  closely  in  hers  and  she  sat 
there,  quiet,  looking  at  her  hopes  lying  slain  before  her. 
Her  Jack.  The  wife  who  was,  perhaps,  to  have  been  his. 
The  children  that  she,  perhaps,  should  have  seen.  All 
dead.  The  future  blotted  out.  Only  this  wraith-like  pres 
ent;  only  this  moment  of  decision;  Jack  and  his  desperate 
need  the  only  real  things  left. 

And  after  a  moment,  for  his  laboring  breath  had  failed, 
she  said,  'Yes,  dear?'  and  smiled  at  him. 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  'Mother,  I've 
ruined  your  life.' 

He  had,  of  course,  in  ruining  his  own;  yet  even  at  that 
moment  of  wreckage  she  was  able  to  remember,  if  not  to 
feel,  that  life  could  mend  from  terrible  wounds,  could  mar- 
velously  grow  from  compromises  and  defeats.  'No,  dear 
est,  no,'  she  said.  *  While  I  have  you,  nothing  is  ruined. 
We  shall  see  wrhat  can  be  done.  Go  on.  Tell  me  the  rest.' 

He  put  out  his  hand  to  hers  again  and  sat  now  a  little 
turned  away  from  her,  speaking  on  in  his  deadened,  bitter 
voice. 

*  There  was  n't  any  glamour  after  that  first  time.  I  only 
saw  her  once  or  twice  again.  I  was  awfully  sorry'  and 
ashamed  over  the  whole  thing.  Her  company  left  London, 
on  tour,  and ^then  the  war  came,  and  I  simply  forgot  all 
about  her.  And  the  other  day,  over  there,  I  had  a  letter 
from  her.  She  was  in  terrible  trouble.  She  was  ill  and  had 
no  money,  and  no  work.  And  she  was  going  to  have  a 
child  —  my  child;  and  she  begged  me  to  send  her  a  little 
money  to  help  her  through,  or  she  did  n't  know  what  would 
become  of  her.' 

The  fog,  the  horrible  confusion,  even  the  despair,  had 
passed  now.  The  sense  of  ruin,  of  wreckage  almost  irrep 
arable,  was  there;  yet  with  it,  too,  was  the  strangest  sense 
of  gladness.  He  was  her  own  Jack,  completely  hers,  for 


HEPATICAS  39 

she  saw  now  why  he  had  done  it;  she  could  be  glad  that  he 
had  done  it ;  she  could  be  glad  that  he  had  done  it.  *  Go  on, 
dear,'  she  said.  *  I  understand ;  I  understand  perfectly.' 

*  O  mother,  bless  you ! '    He  put  her  hand  to  his  lips,  bow 
ing  his  head  upon  it  for  a  moment.     'I  was  afraid  you 
could  n't.    I  was  afraid  you  could  n't  forgive  me.    But  I 
had  to  do  it.    I  thought  it  all  over  —  out  there.     Every 
thing  had  become  so  different  after  what  one  had  been 
through.     One  saw  everything  differently.     Some  things 
did  n't  matter  at  all,  and  other  things  mattered  tremen 
dously.    This  was  one  of  them.    I  knew  I  could  n't  just  send 
her  money.    I  knew  I  could  n't  bear  to  have  the  poor  child 
born  without  a  name  and  with  only  that  foolish  little 
mother  to  take  care  of  it.    And  when  I  found  I  could  get 
this  leave,  I  knew  I  must  marry  her.    That  was  why  I 
did  n't  wire.    I  thought  I  might  not  have  time  to  come  to 
you  at  all.' 

*  Where  is  she,  Jack?'     Her  voice,  her  eyes,  her  smile  at 
him,  showed  him  that,  indeed,  she  understood  perfectly. 

'In  lodgings  that  I  found  for  her;  nice  and  quiet,  with  a 
kind  landlady.  She  was  in  such  an  awful  place  in  EaHirg. 
She  is  so  changed,  poor  little  thing.  I  should  hardly  have 
known  her.  Mother,  darling,  I  wonder,  could  you  just  go 
and  see  her  once  or  twice?  She's  frightfully  lonely;  and  so 
very  young.  —  If  you  could  —  if  you  would  just  help 
things  along  a  little  till  the  baby  comes,  I  should  be  so 
grateful.  And,  then,  if  I  don't  come  back,  will  you,  for 
my  sake,  see  that  they  are  safe?' 

'But,  Jack,'  she  said,  smiling  at  him,  'she  is  coming  here, 
of  course.  I  shall  go  and  get  her  to-morrow.' 

He  stared  at  her  and  his  color  rose.  '  Get  her?  Bring 
her  here,  to  stay?' 

'  Of  course,  darling.  And  if  you  don't  come  back,  I  will 
take  care  of  them,  always.' 


40  HEPATICAS 

'But,  mother,'  said  Jack;  tt»d~ there  were  tears  in  his 
eyes,  'you  don't  know,  you  don't  realize.  I  mean  —  she's 
a  dear  little  thing  —  but  you  couldn't  be  happy  with  her. 
She'd  get  most  frightfully  on  your  nerves.  She's  just  — 
just  a  silly  little  dancer  who  has  got  into  trouble.' 

Jack  was  clear-sighted.  Every  vestige  of  fairyland  had 
vanished.  And  she  was  deeply  thankful  that  they  should 
see  alike,  while  she  answered,  'It's  not  exactly  a  time  for 
considering  one's  nerves,  is  it,  Jack?  I  hope  I  won't  get  on 
hers.  I  must  just  try  and  make  her  as  happy  as  I  can.' 

She  made  it  all  seem  natural  and  almost  sweet.  The 
tears  were  in  his  eyes,  yet  he  had  to  smile  back  at  her  when 
she  said,  'You  know  that  I  am  good  at  managing  people. 
I'll  manage  her.  And  perhaps  when  you  come  back,  my 
darling,  she  won't  be  a  silly  little  dancer.' 

They  sat  now  for  a  little  while  in  silence.  While  they 
had  talked,  a  golden  sunset,  slowly,  had  illuminated  the 
western  sky.  The  river  below  them  was  golden,  and  the 
wintry  woodlands  bathed  in  light.  Jack  held  her  hands 
and  gazed  at  her.  Love  could  say  no  more  than  his  eyes, 
in  their  trust  and  sorrow,  said  to  her;  she  could  never  more 
completely  possess  her  son.  Sitting  there  with  him,  hand 
in  hand,  while  the  light  slowly  ebbed  and  twilight  fell  about 
them,  she  felt  it  to  be,  in  its  accepted  sorrow,  the  culminat 
ing  and  transfiguring  moment  of  her  maternity. 

When  they  at  last  rose  to  go  it  was  the  hour  for  Jack's 
departure,  and  it  had  become  almost  dark.  Far  away, 
through  the  trees,  they  could  see  the  lighted  windows  of  the 
house  which  waited  for  them,  but  to  which  she  must  return 
alone. 

With  his  arms  around  her  shoulders,  Jack  paused  a 
moment,  looking  about  him. . 'l^oyou  remember  that  day 
—  when  we  first  came  here,  mummy? '  he  asked* 

She  felt  in  him  suddenly  a  sadness  deeper  than  any  he 


PATICAS  41 

had  yet  shown  her.  The  burden  of  the  past  she  had  lifted 
from  him;  but  he  must  bear  now  the  burden  of  what  he  had 
done  to  her,  to  their  life,  to  all  the  future.  And,  protesting 
against  his  pain,  her  mother's  heart  strove  still  to  shelter 
him  while  she  answered,  as  if  she  did  not  feel  his  sadness, 
'Yes,  dear,  and  do  you  remember  the  hepaticas  on  that 
day?' 

'Like  you,'  said  Jack  in  a  gentle  voice.  'I  can  hardly 
see  the  plants.  Are  they  all  right? ' 

'They  are  doing  beautifully.' 

'  I  wish  the  flowers  were  out,'  said  Jack.  '  I  wish  i  t  were 
the  time  for  the  flowers  to  be  out,  so  that  I  could  have  seen 
you  and  them  together,  like  that  first  day.'  And  then,  put 
ting  his  head  down  on  her  shoulder,  he  murmured, '  It  will 
never  be  the  same  again.  I've  spoiled  everything  for  you.' 

But  he  was  not  to  go  from  her  uncomf orted.  She  found 
the  firmest  voice  in  which  to  answer  him,  stroking  his  hair 
and  pressing  him  to  her  with  the  full  reassurance  of  her 
resolution.  'Nothing  is  spoiled,  Jack,  nothing.  You  have 
never  been  so  near  me  —  so  how  can  anything  be  spoiled? 
And  when  you  come  back,  darling,  you'll  find  your  son, 
perhaps,  and  the  hepaticas  may  be  in  flower,  waiting  for 
you.' 

ii 

Mrs.  Bradley  and  her  daughter-  in-law  sat  together  in  the 
drawing-room.  They  sat  opposite  each  other  on  the  two 
chintz  chesterfields  placed  at  right  angles  to  the  pleasantly 
blazing  fire,  the  chintz  curtains  drawn  against  a  rainy  even 
ing.  It  was  a  long,  low  room,  with  paneled  walls;  and,  like 
Mrs.  Bradley 's  head,  it  had  an  air  at  once  majestic,  deco 
rated,  and  old-fashioned.  It  was  a  rather  crowded  room, 
with  many  deep  chairs  and  large  couches,  many  tables  with 
lamps  and  books  and  photographs  upon  them,  many 


42  HEPATICAS 

porcelains,  prints,  and  pots  of  growing  flowers.  Mrs. 
Bradley,  her  tea-table  before  her,  was  in  her  evening  black 
silk;  lace  ruffles  rose  about  her  throat;  she  wore  her  accus 
tomed  necklace  of  old  enamel,  blue,  black,  and  white,  set 
with  small  diamonds,  and  the  enamel  locket  which  had 
within  it  Jack's  face  on  one  side  and  his  father's  on  the 
other;  her  white  hands,  moving  gently  among  the  teacups, 
showed  an  ancient  cluster  of  diamonds  above  the  slender 
wedding-ring. 

From  time  to  time  she  lifted  her  eyes  and  smiled  quietly 
over  at  her  daughter-in-law.  /  It  was  the  first  time  that  she 
had  really  seen  Dollie,  that  is,  in  any  sense  that  meant 
contemplative  observation.  Dollie  had  spent  her  first 
week  at  Dorrington  in  bed,  sodden  with  fatigue  rather 
than  ill.  'What  you  need,'  Mrs.  Bradley  had  said,  'is  to 
go  to  sleep  for  a  fortnight';  and  Dollie  had  almost  liter 
ally  carried  out  the  prescription. 

Stealing  carefully  into  the  darkened  room,  with  its  flow 
ers  and  opened  windows  and  steadily  glowing  fire,  Mrs. 
Bradley  had  stood  and  looked  for  long  moments  at  all  that 
she  could  see  of  her  daughter-in-law,  —  a  flushed,  almost 
babyish  face  lying  on  the  pillow  between  thick  golden 
braids,  sleeping  so  deeply,  so  unconsciously,  —  her  sleep 
making  her  mother-in-law  think  of  a  little  boat  gliding 
slowly  yet  steadily  on  and  on,  between  new  shores;  so  that, 
when  she  was  to  awake  and  look  about  her,  it  would  be  as 
if,  with  no  bewilderment  or  readjustment,  she  found  herself 
transformed,  a  denizen  of  an  altered  world.  That  was  what 
Mrs.  Bradley  wanted,  that  Dollie  should  become  an  inmate 
of  Dorrington  with  as  little  effort  or  consciousness  for  any 
of  them  as  possible;  and  the  drowsy  days  and  nights  of 
infantine  slumbers  seemed  indeed  to  have  brought  her  very 
near. 

She  and  Pickering,  the  admirable  woman  who  filled  so 


HEPATICAS  43 

skillfully  the  combined  positions  of  lady's  maid  and  parlor 
maid  in  her  little  establishment,  had  braided  Dollie's  thick 
tresses,  one  on  either  side  —  Mrs.  Bradley  laughing  a  little 
and  both  older  women  touched,  almost  happy  in  their  sense 
of  something  so  young  and  helpless  to  take  care  of.  Pick 
ering  understood,  nearly  as  well  as  Jack's  mother,  that 
Master  Jack,  as  he  had  remained  to  her,  had  married  very 
much  beneath  him;  but  at  this  time  of  tragic  issues  and 
primitive  values,  she,  nearly  as  much  as  Jack's  mother,  felt 
only  the  claim,  the  pathos  of  youth  and  helplessness.  It 
was  as  if  they  had  a  singularly  appealing  case  of  a  refugee 
to  take  care  of :  social  and  even  moral  appraisals  were  inap 
plicable  to  such  a  case,  and  Mrs.  Bradley  felt  that  she  had 
never  so  admired  Pickering  as  when  seeing  that  for  her,  too, 
they  were  in  abeyance.  It  was  a  comfort  to  feel  so  fond  of 
Pickering  at  a  time  when  one  was  in  need  of  any  comfort 
one  could  get;  and  to  feel  that,  creature  of  codes  and  dis 
criminations  as  she  was,  to  a  degree  that  had  made  her  mis 
tress  sometimes  think  of  her  as  a  sort  of  Samurai  of  service, 
a  function  rather  than  a  person,  she  was  even  more  funda 
mentally  a  kind  and  Christian  woman.  Between  them, 
cook  intelligently  sustaining  them  from  below  and  the 
housemaids  helpful  in  their  degree,  they  fed  and  tended  and 
nursed  Dollie,  and  by  that  eighth  day  she  was  more  than 
ready  to  get  up  and  go  down  and  investigate  her  new  sur 
roundings. 

iShe  sat  there  now,  in  the  pretty  tea-gown  her  mother-in- 
law  had  bought  for  her,  leaning  back  against  her  cushions, 
one  arm  lying  along  the  back  of  the  couch  and  one  foot  in 
its  patent-leather  shoe,  with  its  sparkling  buckle  and  alarm 
ing  heel,  thrusting  forward  a  carefully  arched  instep.  The 
attitude  made  one  realize,  however  completely  tenderer 
preoccupations  held  the  foreground  of  one's  consciousness, 
how  often  and  successfully  she  must  have  sat  to  theatrical 


44  HEPATICAS 

photographers.  Her  way  of  smiling,  too,  very  softly,  yet 
with  the  effect  of  a  calculated  and  dazzling  display  of  pearly 
teeth,  was  impersonal,  and  directed,  as  it  were,  to  the  pub 
lic  via  the  camera  rather  than  to  any  individual  interlocu 
tor.  Mrs.  Bradley  even  imagined,  unversed  as  she  was  in 
the  methods  of  Dollie's  world,  that  of  allurement  in  its  con 
scious  and  determined  sense,  she  was  almost  innocent. 
She  placed  herself,  she  adjusted  her  arm  and  her  foot,  and 
she  smiled  gently;  intention  hardly  went  further  than  that 
wish  to  look  her  best. 

Pink  and  white  and  gold  as  she  was,  and  draped  there  on 
the  chesterfield  in  a  profusion  of  youth  and  a  frivolity  that 
was  yet  all  passivity,  she  made  her  mother-in-law  think, 
and  with  a  certain  sinking  of  the  heart,  of  a  Dorothy  Per 
kins  rose,  a  flower  she  had  never  cared  for;  and  Dollie  car 
ried  on  the  analogy  in  the  sense  she  gave  that  there  were 
such  myriads  more  just  like  her.  On  almost  every  page  of 
every  illustrated  weekly  paper,  one  saw  the  ingenuous,  lim 
pid  eyes,  the  display  of  eyelash,  t/he  lips,  their  outline 
emphasized  by  just  that  touch  of  rouge,  those  copious 
waves-of  hair.  Like  the  Dorothy  Perkins  roses  on  their 
pergolas,  so  these  pretty  faces  seemed  —  looped,  draped, 
festooned  —  to  climb  over  all  the  available  spaces  of  the 
modern  press. 

But  this,  Mrs.  Bradley  told  herself,  was  to  see  Dollie  with 
a  dry,  hard  eye,  was  to  see  her  superficially,  from  the  social 
rather  than  from  the  human  point  of  view.  Under  the 
photographic  creature  must  lie  the  young,  young  girl  —  so 
young,  so  harmless  that  it  would  be  very  possible  to  mould 
her,  with  all  discretion,  all  tenderness,  into  some  suitability 
as  Jack's  wife.  Dollie,  from  the  moment  that  she  had 
found  her,  a  sodden,  battered  rose  indeed,  in  the  London 
lodging-house,  had  shown  herself  grateful,  even  humble, 
and  endlessly  acquiescent.  She  had  not  shown  herself  at 


HEPATICAS  45 

all  abashed  or  apologetic,  and  that  had  been  a  relief;  had 
counted  for  her,  indeed,  in  her  mother-in-law's  eyes,  as  a 
sort  of  innocence,  a  sort  of  dignity.  But  if  Dollie  were  con 
tented  with  her  new  mother,  and  very  grateful  to  her,  she 
was  also  contented  with  herself;  Mrs.  Bradley  had  been 
aware  of  this  at  once;  and  she  knew  now  that,  if  she  were 
being  carefully  and  commendingly  watched  while  she 
poured  out  the  tea,  this  concentration  did  not  imply  un 
qualified  approval.  Dollie  was  the  type  of  young  woman 
to  whom  she  herself  stood  as  the  type  of  the  'perfect  lady'; 
but  with  the  appreciation  went  the  proviso  of  the  sharp 
little  London  mind,  —  versed  in  the  whole  ritual  of  smart 
ness  as  it  displayed  itself  at  theatre  or  restaurant,  —  that 
she  was  a  rather  dowdy  one.  She  was  a  lady,  perfect  but 
not  smart,  while,  at  the  same  time,  the  quality  of  her  defect 
was,  she  imagined,  a  little  bewildering  and  therefore  a  little 
impressive.  Actually  to  awe  Dollie  and  to  make  her  shy,  it 
would  be  necessary  to  be  smart;  but  it  was  far  more  pleas 
ant  and  perhaps  as  efficacious  merely  to  impress  her,  and 
it  was  as  well  that  Dollie  should  be  impressed;  for  anything 
in  the  nature  of  an  advantage  that  she  could  recognize 
would  make  it  easier  to  direct,  protect,  and  mould  her. 

She  asked  her  a  good  many  leisurely  and  unstressed 
questions  on  this  first  evening,  and  drew  Dollie  to  ask  others 
in  return;  and  she  saw  herself  stooping  thoughtfully  over  a 
flourishing  young  plant  which  yet  needed  transplanting, 
softly  moving  the  soil  about  its  roots,  softly  finding  out  if 
there  were  any  very  deep  tap-root  that  would  have  to  be 
dealt  with.  But  Dollie,  so  far  as  tastes  and  ideas  went, 
hardly  seemed  to  have  any  roots  at  all;  so  few  that  it  was  a 
question  if  any  change  of  soil  could  affect  a  creature  so  shal 
low.  She  smiled,  she  was  at  ease;  she  showed  her  complete 
assurance  that  a  young  lady  so  lavishly  endowed  with  all 


46  HEPATICAS 

the  most  significant  gifts,  need  not  occupy  herself  with  men 
tal  adornments. 

*  You're  a  great  one  for  books,  I  see,'  she  commented, 
looking  about  the  room.    *  I  suppose  you  do  a  great  deal  of 
reading  down  here  to  keep  from  feeling  too  dull';  and  she 
added  that  she  herself,  if  there  was  *  nothing  doing,'  liked  a 
good  novel,  especially  if  she  had  a  box  of  sweets  to  eat  while 
she  read  it. 

*  You  shall  have  a  box  of  sweets  to-morrow,'  Mrs.  Bradley 
told  her,  'with  or  without  the  novel,  as  you  like.' 

And  Dollie  thanked  her,  watching  her  cut  the  cake,  and, 
as  the  rain  lashed  against  the  windows,  remarking  on  the 
bad  weather  and  cheerfully  hoping  that  'poor  old  Jack' 
was  n't  in  those  horrid  trenches.  'I  think  war's  a  wicked 
thing,  don't  you,  Mrs.  Bradley?'  she  added. 

When  Dollie  talked  in  this  conventionally  solicitous  tone 
of  Jack,  her  mother-in-law  could  but  wish  her  upstairs 
again,  merely  young,  merely  the  tired  and  battered  refugee. 
She  had  not  much  tenderness  for  Jack,  that  was  evident, 
nor  much  imaginativeness  in  regard  to  the  feelings  of  Jack's 
mother.  But  she  soon  passed  from  the  theme  of  Jack  and 
his  danger.  Her  tea  was  finished  and  she  got  up  and  went 
to  the  piano,  remarking  that  there  was  one  thing  she  could 
do.  '  Poor  mother  used  to  always  say  I  was  made  of  music. 
From  the  time  I  was  a  mere  tot  I  could  pick  out  anything 
on  the  piano. '  And  placing  herself,  pressing  down  the  pat 
ent-leather  shoe  on  the  loud  pedal,  she  surged  into  a  waltz 
as  foolish  and  as  conventionally  alluring  as  her  own  eyes. 
Her  inaccuracy  was  equaled  only  by  her  facility.  Smiling, 
swaying  over  the  keys  with  alternate  speed  and  languor,  she 
addressed  her  audience  with  altogether  the  easy  mastery  of 
a  music-hall  artiste: '  It's  a  lovely  thing  —  one  of  my  favor 
ites.  I'll  often  play,  Mrs.  Bradley,  and  cheer  us  up.  There 
is  nothing  like  music  for  that,  is  there?  it  speaks  so  to  the 


HEPATICAS  47 

heart/  And,  whole-heartedly  indeed,  she  accompanied  the 
melody  by  a  passionate  humming. 

The  piano  was  Jack's  and  it  was  poor  Jack  who  was  made 
of  music.  How  was  he  to  bear  it,  his  mother  asked  herself, 
as  she  sat  listening.  Dollie,  after  that  initiation,  spent 
many  hours  at  the  piano  every  day  —  so  many  and  such 
noisy  hours,  that  her  mother-in-law,  unnoticed,  could  shut 
herself  in  the  little  morning-room  that  overlooked  the  brick 
wall  at  the  front  of  the  house  and  had  the  morning  sun. 

It  was  difficult  to  devise  other  occupations  for  Dollie. 
She  earnestly  disclaimed  any  w ish  to  have  proper  music 
lessons;  and  when  her  mother-in-law,  patiently  persistent, 
arranged  for  a  skillful  mistress  to  come  down  twice  a  week 
from  London,  Dollie  showed  such  apathy  and  dullness  that 
any  hope  of  developing  such  musical  ability  as  she  possessed 
had  to  be  abandoned.  She  did  not  like  walking,  and  the 
sober  pageant  of  the  winter  days  was  a  blank  book  to  her. 
Sewing,  she  said,  had  always  given  her  frightful  fidgets;  and 
it  was  with  the  strangest  sense  of  a  privilege,  a  joy  un 
hoped-for  and  now  thrust  upon  her,  that  Mrs.  Bradley  sat 
alone  working  at  the  little  garments  which  meant  all  her 
future  and  all  Jack's.  The  baby  seemed  already  more 
hers  than  Dollie's. 

Sometimes,  on  a  warm  afternoon,  Dollie,  wrapped  in  her 
fur  cloak,  would  emerge  for  a  little  while  and  watch  her 
mother-in-law  at  work  in  her  borders. ;  The  sight  amused 
and  surprised,  but  hardly  interested  her,  and  she  soon  went 
tottering  back  to  the  house  on  the  preposterous  heels  which 
Mrs.  Bradley  had,  as  yet,  found  no  means  of  tactfully 
banishing.  And  sometimes,  when  thie  piano  again  re 
sounded,  Mrs.  Bradley  would  leave  her  borders  and  retreat 
to  the  hazel  copse,  where,  as  she  sat  on  the  stone  bench,  she 
could  hear,  through  the  soft  sound  of  the  running  water, 
Lardly  more  than  the  distant  beat  and  hum  of  Dollie's 


48  HEPATICAS 

waltzes;  and  where,  with  more  and  more  the  sense  of  escape 
and  safety,  she  could  find  a  refuge  from  the  sight  and  sound 
and  scent  of  Dollie  —  the  thick,  sweet,  penetrating  scent 
which  was  always  to  be  indelibly  associated  in  her  mother- 
in-law's  mind  with  this  winter  of  foreboding,  of  hope,  and  of 
growing  hopelessness. 

In Ji«r  letters  to  Jack,  she  found  herself,  involuntarily  at 
first,  and  then  deliberately,  altering,  suppressing,  even  fal 
sifying.  While  Dollie  had  been  in  bed,  when  so  much  hope 
had  been  possible  of  a  creature  so  unrevealed,  she  had 
written  very  tenderly,  and  she  continued,  now,  to  write 
tenderly,  and  it  was  not  false  to  do  that;  she  could  feel  no 
hardness  or  antagonism  against  poor  Dollie.  But  she  con 
tinued  to  write  hopefully,  as,  every  day,  hope  grew  less. 

Jack,  himself,  did  not  say  much  of  Dollie,  though  there 
was  always  the  affectionate  message  and  the  affectionate 
inquiry.  But  what  was  difficult  to  deal  with  were  the  hints 
of  his  anxiety  and  fear  that  stole  among  the  terse,  cheerful 
descriptions  of  his  precarious  days.  What  was  she  doing 
with  herself?  How  were  she  and  Dollie  getting  on?  Did 
Dollie  care  about  any  of  the  things  she  cared  about? 

She  told  him  that  they  got  on  excellently  well,  that  Dollie 
spent  a  good  deal  of  time  at  the  piano,  and  that  when  they 
went  out  to  tea  people  were  perfectly  nice  and  understand 
ing.  She  knew,  indeed,  that  she  could  depend  on  her 
friends  to  be  that.  They  accepted  Dollie  on  the  terms  she 
asked  for  her.  From  friends  so  near  as  Mrs.  Crawley  and 
Lady  Wrexham  she  had  not  concealed  the  fact  that  Dollie 
was  a  misfortune;  but  if  others  thought  so,  they  were  not  to 
show  it.  She  still  hoped,  by  degrees,  to  make  Dollie  a  figure 
easier  to  deal  with  at  such  neighborly  gatherings.  She  had 
abandoned  any  hope  that  Dollie  would  grow :  anything  so 
feeble  and  so  foolish  could  not  grow;  there  was  no  other 
girl  under  the  little  dancer;  she  was  simply  no  more  and  no 


HEPATICAS  49 

less  than  she  showed  herself  to  be;  but,  at  this  later  stage  of 
their  relationship,  Mrs.  Bradley  essayed,  now  and  then,  a 
deliberate  if  kindly  severity  —  as  to  heels,  as  to  scents,  as 
to  touches  of  rouge. 

'Oh,  but  I'm  as  careful,  just  as  careful,  Mrs.  Bradley!' 
Dollie  protested.  *  I  can't  walk  in  lower  heels.  They  hurt 
my  instep.  I've  a  very  high  instep  and  it  needs  support/ 
She  was  genuinely  amazed  that  any  one  could  dislike  her 
scent  and  that  any  one  could  think  the  rouge  unbecoming. 
She  seemed  to  acquiesce,  but  the  acquiescence  was  fol 
lowed  by  moods  of  mournf  ulness  and  even  by  tears .  There 
was  no  capacity  in  her  for  temper  or  rebellion,  and  she  was 
all  unconscious  of  giving  a  warning  as  she  sobbed,  'It's 
nothing  —  really  nothing,  Mrs.  Bradley.  I'm  sure  you 
mean  to  be  kind.  Only  —  it's  rather  quiet  and  lonely  here. 
I've  always  been  used  to  so  many  people  —  to  having 
everything  so  bright  and  jolly.' 

She  was  not  rapacious;  she  was  not  dissolute;  she  could 
be  kept  respectable  and  even  contented  if  she  were  not 
made  too  aware  of  the  contrast  between  her  past  existence 
and  her  present  lot.  With  an  air  only  of  pensive  pride  she 
would  sometimes  point  out  to  Mrs.  Bradley,  in  the  pages 
of  those  same  illustrated  weeklies  with  which  her  mother- 
in-law  associated  her,  the  face  of  some  former  companion. 
One  of  these  young  ladies  had  recently  married  the  son  of  a 
peer.  'She  is  in  luck,  Floss,'  said  Dollie.  'We  always 
thought  it  would  come  to  that.  He's  been  gone  on  her  for 
ages,  but  his  people  were  horrid.' 

Mrs.  Bradley  felt  that,  at  all  events,  Dollie  had  no  ground 
for  thinking  her  'horrid' ;  yet  she  imagined  that  there  lay 
drowsing  at  the  back  of  her  mind  a  plaintive  little  sense  of 
being  caught  and  imprisoned.  Floss  had  stepped,  trium 
phant,  from  the  footlights  to  the  registrar's  office,  and  appar 
ently  had  succeeded  in  uniting  the  radiance  of  her  past  and 


50  HEPATICAS 

present  status.  No,  Dollie  could  be  kept  respectable  and 
contented  only  if  the  pressure  were  of  the  lightest.  She 
could  not  change,  she  could  only  shift;  and  although  Mrs. 
Bradley  felt  that  for  herself,  her  life  behind  her,  her  story 
told,  she  could  manage  to  put  up  with  a  merely  shifted  Dol 
lie,  she  could  not  see  how  Jack  was  to  manage  it.  What 
was  Jack  to  do  with  her?  was  the  thought  that  pressed  with 
a  growing  weight  on  her  mother's  heart.  She  could  never 
be  of  Jack's  life;  yet  here  she  was,  in  it,  planted  there  by  his 
own  generous  yet  inevitable  act,  and  by  hers  —  in  its  very 
centre,  and  not  to  be  evaded  or  forgotten. 

And  the  contrast  between  what  Jack's  life  might  have 
been  and  what  it  now  must  be  was  made  more  poignantly 
apparent  to  her  when  Frances  Thorpe  came  down  to  stay 
from  a  Saturday  to  Monday:  Frances  in  her  black,  tired 
and  thin  from  Red-Cross  work  in  London;  bereaved  in 
more,  her  old  friend  knew,  than  dear  Toppie's  death;  yet 
with  her  leisurely,  unstressed  cheerfulness  almost  unaltered, 
the  lightness  that  went  with  so  much  tenderness,  the  droll 
ery  that  went  w^ith  so  much  depth.  Dearest,  most  charm 
ing  of  girls,  —  but  for  Jack's  wretched  stumble  into  *f airy- 
land'  last  summer,  destined  obviously  to  be  his  wife,  — 
could  any  presence  have  shown  more  disastrously,  in  its 
contrast  with  poor  Dollie,  how  Jack  had  done  for  himself? 

She  watched  the  two  together  that  evening  —  Frances 
with  her  thick,  crinkled  hair  and  clearly  curved  brow  and 
her  merry,  steady  eyes,  leaning,  elbow  on  knee,  to  talk  and 
listen  to  Dollie;  and  Dollie,  poor  Dollie,  flushed,  touched 
with  an  unbecoming  sulkiness,  aware,  swiftly  and  uner 
ringly,  of  a  rival  type.  Frances  was  of  the  type  that  young 
men  married  when  they  did  not  'do  for  themselves.' 
There  was  now  no  gulf  of  age  or  habit  to  veil  from  Dollie 
her  disadvantage.  She  answered  shortly,  with  now  and 


HEPATICAS  51 

then  a  dry,  ironic  little  laugh;  and,  getting  up  at  last,  she 
went  to  the  piano  and  loudly  played. 

'He  couldn't  have  done  differently.  It  was  the  only 
thing  he  could  do/  Frances  said  that  night  before  her  bed 
room  fire.  She  did  not  hide  her  recognition  of  Jack's  plight, 
but  she  was  staunch. 

'I  wouldn't  have  had  him  do  differently.  But  it  will 
ruin  his  life,'  said  the  mother.  'If  he  comes  back,  it  will 
ruin  his  life.' 

'No,  no,'  said  Frances,  looking  at  the  flames.  'Why 
should  it?  A  man  does  n't  depend  on  his  marriage  like 
that.  He  has  his  career.' 

'Yes.    He  has  his  career.    A  career  is  n't  a  life.' 

'Isn't  it?'  The  girl  gazed  down.  'But  it's  what  so 
many  people  have  to  put  up  with.  And  so  many  have  n't 
even  a  career.'  Something  came  into  her  voice  and  she 
turned  from  it  quickly.  'He's  crippled,  in  a  sense,  of 
course.  But  you  are  here.  He  will  have  you  to  come  back 
to  always.' 

'I  shall  soon  be  old,  dear,  and  she  will  always  be  here. 
That's  inevitable.  Some  day  I  shall  have  to  leave  her  to 
Jack  to  bear  with  alone.' 

'She  may  become  more  of  a  companion.' 

'No;  no,  she  won't.' 

The  bitterness  of  the  mother's  heart  expressed  itself  in 
the  dry,  light  utterance.  It  was  a  comfort  to  express  bit 
terness,  for  once,  to  somebody. 

'She  is  a  harmless  little  thing,'  Frances  offered  after  a 
moment. 

'Harmless?'  Mrs.  Bradley  turned  it  over  dryly  and 
lightly.  '  I  can't  feel  her  that.  I  feel  her  blameless  if  you 
like.  And  it  will  be  easy  to  keep  her  contented.  That  is 
really  the  best  that  one  can  say  of  poor  Dollie.  And  then, 


52  HEPATICAS 

there  will  be  the  child.  I  am  pinning  all  my  hopes  to  the 
child,  Frances/ 

Frances  understood  that. 

Dollie,  as  the  winter  wore  on,  kept  remarkably  well. 
She  had  felt  it  the  proper  thing  to  allude  to  Jack  and  his 
danger;  and  so,  now,  she  more  and  more  frequently  felt  it 
the  proper  thing  to  allude,  humorously,  if  with  a  touch  of 
melancholy,  to  'baby/  Her  main  interest  in  baby,  Mrs. 
Bradley  felt,  was  an  alarmed  one.  She  wras  a  good  deal 
frightened,  poor  little  soul,  and  in  need  of  constant  reassur 
ances;  and  it  was  when  one  need  only  pet  and  pity  Dollie 
that  she  was  easier  to  deal  with.  Mrs.  Bradley  tried  to 
interest  her  in  plans  for  the  baby;  what  it  should  be  named, 
and  how  its  hair  should  be  done  if  it  were  a  little  girl  — •  for 
only  on  this  assumption  could  Dollie's  interest  be  at  all 
vividly  roused;  and  Mrs.  Bradley  hoped  more  than  ever  for 
a  boy  when  she  found  Dollie's  idle  yet  stubborn  thoughts 
fixed  on  the  name  of  Gloria. 

She  was  able  to  evade  discussion  of  this  point,  and  when 
the  baby  came,  fortunately  and  robustly,  into  the  worlcton 
a  fine  March  morning,  she  could  feel  it  as  a  minor  but  very 
real  cause  for  thanksgiving  that  Dollie  need  now  never 
know  what  she  thought  of  Gloria  as  a  name.  The  baby 
was  a  boy,  and  now  that  he  was  here,  Dollie  seemed  as  well 
pleased  that  he  should  be  a  commonplace  Jack,  and  that 
there  should  be  no  question  of  tying  his  hair  with  cockades 
of  ribbon  over  each  ear.  Smiling  and  rosy  and  languid,  she 
lay  in  her  charming  room,  not  at  all  more  maternal,  — 
though  she  showed  a  bland  satisfaction  in  her  child  and 
noted  that  his  eyes  were  just  like  Jack's, —  yet  subtly  more 
wifely.  Baby,  she  no  doubt  felt,  with  the  dim  instinct  that 
did  duty  for  thought  with  her,  placed  and  rooted  her  and 
gave  her  final  rights.  She  referred  now  to  Jack  with  the 
pensive  but  open  affection  of  their  shared  complacency, 


HEPATICAS  53 

and  made  her  mother-in-law  think,  as  she  lay  there,  of  a 
soft  and  sleepy  and  tenacious  creeper,  fixing  tentacle  after 
tentacle  in  the  walls  of  Jack's  house  of  life. 

If  only  one  could  feel  that  she  had  furnished  it  with  a 
treasure.  Gravely,  with  a  sad  fondness,  the  grandmother 
studied  the  little  face,  so  unfamiliar,  for  signs  of  Jack.  She 
was  a  helplessly  clear-sighted  woman,  and  remembrance 
was  poignantly  vivid  in  her  of  Jack's  face  at  a  week  old. 
Already  she  loved  the  baby  since  its  eyes,  indubitably,  were 
his;  but  she  could  find  no  other  trace  of  him.  It  was  not  a 
Bradley  baby;  and  in  the  dreamy,  foreboding  flickers  of 
individuality  that  pass  uncannily  across  an  infant's  fea 
tures,  her  melancholy  and  steady  discernment  could  see 
only  the  Byles  ancestry. 

She  was  to  do  all  she  could  for  the  baby :  to  save  him,  so 
far  as  might  be,  from  his  Byles  ancestry,  and  to  keep  him, 
so  far  as  might  be,  Jack's  and  hers.  That  was  to  be  her 
task.  But  with  all  the  moulding  that  could,  mercifully,  be 
applied  from  the  very  beginning,  she  could  not  bring  herself 
to  believe  that  this  was  ever  to  be  a  very  significant  human 
being. 

She  sent  Jack  his  wire :  *  A  son.  Dollie  doing  splendidly.' 
And  she  had  his  answer:  'Best  thanks.  Love  to  Dollie.' 
It  was  curious,  indeed,  this  strange  new  fact  they  had  now, 
always,  to  deal  with;  this  light  little  *  Dollie'  that  must  be 
passed  between  them.  The  baby  might  have  made  Jack 
happy,  but  it  had  not  solved  the  problem  of  his  future. 


in 

A  week  later  the  telegram  was  brought  to  her  telling  her 
that  he  had  been  killed  in  action./ 

It  was  a  beautiful  spring  day,  just  such  a  day  as  that  on 
which  she  and  Jack  had  first  seen  Dorrington,  and  she  had 


54  HEPATICAS 

been  working  in  the  garden.  When  she  had  read,  she 
turned  and  walked  down  the  path  that  led  to  the  hazel 
copse.  She  hardly  knew  what  had  happened  to  her;  there 
was  only  an  instinct  for  flight,  concealment,  secrecy ;  but, 
as  she  walked,  there  rose  in  her,  without  sound,  as  if  in  a 
nightmare,  the  terrible  cry  of  her  loneliness.  The  dark  wet 
earth  that  covered  him  seemed  heaped  upon  her  heart. 

The  hazel  copse  was  tasseled  thickly  with  golden  green, 
and  as  she  entered  it  she  saw  that  the  hepaticas  were  in 
flower.  They  seemed  to  shine  with  their  own  celestial 
whiteness,  set  in  their  melancholy  green  among  the  fallen 
leaves.  She  had  never  seen  them  look  so  beautiful. 

She  followed  the  path,  looking  down  at  them,  and  she 
seemed  to  feel  Jack's  little  hand  in  hers  and  to  see,  at  her 
side,  his  nut-brown  head.  It  had  been  on  just  such  a  morn 
ing.  She  came  to  the  stone  bench ;  but  the  impulse  that  had 
led  her  here  was  altered.  She  did  not  sink  down  and  cover 
her  face,  but  stood  looking  around  her  at  the  flowers,  the 
telegram  still  open  in  her  hand;  and  slowly,  with  stealing 
calm,  the  sense  of  sanctuary  fell  about  her. 

She  had  lost  him,  and  with  him  went  all  her  life.  He  was 
dead,  his  youth  and  strength  and  beauty.  Yet  what  was 
this  strange  up-welling  of  relief,  deep,  deep  relief,  for  Jack; 
this  gladness,  poignant  and  celestial,  like  that  of  the  hepati 
cas?  He  was  dead  and  the  dark  earth  covered  him;  yet  he 
was  here,  with  her,  safe  in  his  youth  and  strength  and 
beauty  forever.  He  had  died  the  glorious  death,  and  no 
future,  tangled,  perplexed,  fretful  with  its  foolish  burden, 
lay  before  him.  There  was  no  loss  for  Jack  — •  no  fading, 
no  waste.  The  burden  was  for  her,  and  he  was  free. 

Later,  when  pain  should  have  dissolved  thought,  her 
agony  would  come  to  her  unalleviated;  but  this  hour  was 
hers,  and  his.  She  heard  the  river  and  the  soft  whisperings 
of  spring.  A  bird  dropped  lightly,  unafraid,  from  branch 


HEPATICAS  55 

to  branch  of  a  tree  near  by.  From  the  woods  came  the 
rapid,  insistent  tapping  of  a  woodpecker;  and,  as  in  so  many 
springs,  she  seemed  to  hear  Jack  say,  ^ark,  mummy,*  and 
his  little  hand  was  always  held  in  hers.  And,  everywhere, 
telling  of  irreparable  loss,  of  a  possession  unalterable,  the 
tragic,  the  celestial  hepaticas. 

She  sat  down  on  the  stone  bench  now  and  closed  her  eyes 
for  a  little  while,  so  holding  them  more  closely  —  Jack  and 
the  hepaticas  —  together. 


POSSESSING  PRUDENCE 

BY   AMY   WENTWORTH    STONE 


f  A  LIE'S  an  abomination  unto  the  Lord  a  hundred  and 
twenty-four,  a  lie's  an  abomination  unto  the  Lord  a  hun 
dred  and  twenty-five,  a  lie's  an  abomination  unto  the  Lord 
a  hundred  and  twenty-six,*  recited  Prudence  Jane,  and 
paused. 

'Go  on/  said  Aunt  Annie,  looking  up  from  her  sewing 
and  fixing  her  eyes  severely  on  the  small  blue  back  across 
the  room. 

Prudence  Jane,  with  the  heels  of  her  little  ankle-ties 
together  and  her  hands  clasped  tightly  behind  her,  was 
standing  in  the  corner,  saying  what  was  known  in  the 
family  as  her  punish-sentence.  Whenever  she  had  been 
unusually  naughty  she  had  to  say  one  four  hundred  times 
up  in  Aunt  Annie's  room-lflt  was,  no  doubt,  a  silly  sort 
of  punishment,  but  it  wasmie  that  Prudence  Jane  strongly 
objected  to  — •  and  that,  after  all,  is  the  essence  of  a  pun 
ishment.  Prudence  Jane  had  seven  teasing,  mimicking 
brothers,  and  whenever  one  of  them  caught  her  saying  a 
punish-sentence  it  was  days  before  she  heard  the  last  of  it. 
Already  in  the  garden  below  there  was  audible  a  shrill 
voice  singing,  'A  lie  is  an  a&ora-i-na-tion  un-to  the  Lord,' 
to  the  tune  of  'Has  anybody  here  seen  Kelly?'  And  out 
of  the  corner  of  her  eye,  which  was  supposed  to  be  fastened 
on  the  rosebuds  of  Aunt  Annie's  wall-paper,  Prudence  Jane 
could  see  an  impudent  little  person  in  corduroys,  strad 
dling  the  gravel  walk  and  squinting  up  at  the  window."*/ 


POSSESSING  PRUDENCE  57 

£ls  "a  lie's  an  abomination"  in  the  Bible?'  inquired 
Prudence  Jane. 

'Yes,'  said  Aunt  Annie,  'go  on.' 

*  Where? '  demanded  Prudence  Jane. 

*  Where?'  repeated  Aunt  Annie  a  little  blankly.    'Why 
—  why  —  in  the  middle  of  the  Bible.      Don't  you  listen 
to  the  minister,  Prudence  Jane? ' 

'The  middle  of  the  minister's  Bible?' 


'Yes,  of  course,'  said  Aunt  Annie,  'Prudence  Jane,  if  you 
don't  go  on  at  once  I  shall  have  you  say  it  five  hundred 
times. I 

'A  lie's  an  abomination  unto  the  Lord  a  hundred  and 
twenty-seven,'  resinned ••  Prudence  Jane... hastily. 

Prudence  Jane's  sentences  varied  from  day  to  day,  it 
being  Aunt  Annie's  idea  to  fit  the  sentence  to  the  crime 
whenever  possible.  Thus,  for  being  late  to  school  it  was, 
naturally,  'Procrastination  is  the  thief  of  time.'  While  for 
telling  Lena,  the  cook,  that  Uncle  Arthur  had  said  she  was 
more  of  a  lady  than  Aunt  Annie,  the  sentence  had  been 
nothing  less  than,  'Truth  crushed  to  earth  will  rise  again.' 

Thig  particular  fib  had  been  very  disastrous  in  its  con 
sequences.  We  will  not  dwell  upon  them  here.  They 
make-a-story  in.  themselves.  Suffice  it ™to~say  that  there 
was  no  possible  excuse  for  Prudence-Jane. 

It  was  otherwise  with  the  fib  for  which  she  was  this 
morning  serving  a  sentence  up  in  Aunt  Annie's  room. 
rThose  who  also  have  been  named  after  their  two  grand 
mothers  will  at  once  forgive  Prudence  Jane  for  telling  the 
new  minister,  the  very  first  time  she  met  him,  that  her 
name  was  Imogen  Rose.  It  was,  to  be  sure,  a  stupid  little 
fib,  and  was  therefore  quite  unworthy  of  Prudence  Jane. 
For  Prudence  Jane  almost  never  told  stupid  little  fibs. 
The  fibs  of  Prudence  Jane  were  little  masterpieces,  with  a 


58  POSSESSING  PRUDENCE 


finish  and  distinction  all  their  own^jjler  brother  Will,  who 
adored  her,  and  had  a  large  mind,  declared  when  he  came 
home  from  college  that  she  was  the  greatest  mistress  of 
imaginative  fiction  since  George  Eliot.  Her  Aunt  Annie, 
who  had  not  had  the  advantages  of  a  college  course,  and 
who  roomed  with  Prudence  Jane,  said  that  she  was  a 
'simple  little  liar.' 

Now  this  was  unfair  of  Aunt  Annie,  for  whatever  else 
Prudence  Jane  might  be,  she  was  not  simple.  Even  her 
looks  belied  her.  With  her  big  confiding  eyes,  as  round 
and  blue  as  two  forget-me-nots,  and  her  pale  yellow  hair 
held  demurely  back  from  her  forehead  by  a  blue  ribbon 
fillet,  she  gave  an  impression  of  gentle  innocence  that  was 
altogether  misleading^; 

r*Sl*e  is  so  like  litfie  Bertie/  dear  old  Grandma  Pipex- 
would  say;  'that  same  frail,  flower-like  look  that  he  had 
toward  the  last.    I  almost  tremble  sometimes.    Have  n't 
you  noticed  a  transparency  abou£  her  lately,  Annie?' 

But  Aunt  Annie  never  had. 

It  may  be  said  in  passing  that  there  was  only  one  person 
to  whom  Prudence  Jane  was  really  transparent,  and  that 
was  her  youngest  brother,  Peter.  Peter  was  a  square,  solid 
little  person,  with  a  vacant  countenance;  but  nothing 
important  that  Prudence  Jane  did  escaped  him  ^  .? 

'Just  to  look  into  that  sweet  little  face  is  enoL 
Grandma  Goodwin  would  declare;  'I  don't  war  r  any 
to  tell  me  that  Prudence  Jane  is  untruthful, 
could  look  straight  at  you  out  of  her  little  soul  as 
does,  and  tell  a  fib.    The  trouble  is  they  don't  i: 
her  at  home.     I've  always  said  Annie  Piper  I 
picious  nature.' 

To  do  Aunt  Annie  justice,  it  should  be  said  tha*  rooming 
with  Prudence  Jane  did  not  tend  to  cultivate  L 
nature  that  was  trustful  and  confiding.    And  ye1     \  heart 


POSSESSING  PRUDENCE  59 

Prudence  Jane  was  really  not  at  all  the  incorrigible  little 
fibber  that  she  seemed.  She  told  fibs,  not  because  she 
wished  to  deceive,  but  because  the  dull  facts  of  life  were 
so  much  less  interesting  than  the  lively  little  romances 
which  she  could  make  up  out  of  her  own  head.  l^VVhen  one 
is  a  creative  genius  one  naturally  rebels  at  being  shackled 
to  anything  so  tedious  as  a  factJ^Prudence  Jane,  looking 
back  over  a  day,  could  rarely  separate  the  things  which  had 
really  happened  from  those  she  had  invented. 

Her  brother  Horace,  who  was  studying  law,  said  that 
he  would  give  a  hundred  dollars  to  see  Prudence  Jane  on 
the  witness  stand.  This  was  one  night  at  supper  when  she 
was  being  cross-examined  by  Aunt  Annie.  For  five  min 
utes  she  had  kept  the  family  spellbound  by  a  circumstantial 
account  of  how  that  afternoon  she  had  seen  an  automobile 
truck,  loaded  with  a  thousand  boxes  of  eggs,  go  over  the 
embankment.  With  eggs  at  sixty-five  cents  a  dozen  this 
was  really  a  very  shocking  tale. 

*  Prudence  Jane/  said  Aunt  Annie,  who  had  private 
sources  of  information,  'you  know  well  enough  that  no 
truck  went  over  the  embankment.  Whatever  do  you  mean 
by  telling  such  an  outrageous  fib?' 

Prudence  Jane  looked  across  the  supper  table  at  her 
aunt  out  of  two  round  candid  eyes. 

'That  was  n't  a  fib;  that  was  just  a  story,'  she  explained. 

'Well,  it  wasn't  true;  and  stories  that  aren't  true  are 
very  wicked,'  said  Aunt  Annie  with  decision. 

'Are  all  the  stories  in  books  true?'  inquired  Prudence 
Jane,  the  picture  of  innocence  behind  her  bowl  of  bread 
and  milk. 

'No/  Aunt  Annie  was  forced  to  admit,  'but  stories 
written  in  books  are  different.  The  writers  don't  mean  for 
us  to  believe  them/ 


60  POSSESSING  PRUDENCE 

v*Do  they  say  so  in  the  books?'  went  on  Prudence  Jane 
relerittessjy. 

'Of  course  not/  said  Aunt  Annie;  'we  know  their  stories 
are  n't  true,  so  they  don't  deceive  us.' 

'But  you  always  know  my  stories  are  n't  true,  too,'  ob 
jected  Prudence  Jane;  'so  I  don't  deceive  you,  either.' 

*  Prudence  Jane,'  said  Aunt  Annie,  *I  shan't  argue  with 
you.  You  are  a  very  naughty  little  girl.  I  sometimes 
think  that  you  don't  belong  to  us  at  all;  you're  so  different 
from  your  brothers/^ 

iJThis  was  true.  All  the  other  little  Pipers  had  been 
simple,  virtuous  children,  with  imaginations  under  perfect 
control  —  '  a  remarkable  family '  everybody  had  said,  until 
the  Pipers  became  quite  complacent  about  themselves. 
This  was  why  Prudence  Jane  seemed  like  such  a  judgment 
upon  them^/They  had  waited  long  and  patiently,  as  Aunt 
Annie  put  it,  for  Providence  to  see  fit  to  send  them  a  dear 
little  girl  to  inherit  her  grandmothers'  names  —  and  they 
received  Prudence  Jane.  {jHad  she  appeared  at  an  earlier 
date,  or  had  there  been  another  girl  in  the  family,  she 
might  have  escaped  either  the  Prudence  or  the  Jane.  But 
for  fifteen  years  little  masculine  Pipers  had  arrived  in  the 
household  with  unbroken  regularity,  and  been  named,  one 
by  one,  after  all  the  available  grandfathers  and  uncles. 
For  the  last  one,  indeed,  there  had  not  been  even  a  cousin 
left,  and  he  had  been  christened  by  common  consent  Peter 
Piper.  And  still  the  grandmothers  waitecLJ 

From  the  moment,  therefore,  when  bluff  old  Doctor 
Jones  looked  in  upon  a  parlor  full  of  aunts,  and  announced 
that  it  was '  a  girl  at  last,  by  Jove,'  there  had  been  no  choice 
left  for  Prudence  Jane.  The  only  point  discussed  in  the 
solemn  family  conclave  was  as  to  whether  she  should  not 
be  Jane  Prudence. 

'Oh,  for  mercy's  sake,  call  the  poor  little  kid  Jurispru- 


POSSESSING  PRUDENCE  61 

dence,  and  be  done  with  it,'  said  a  flippant  uncle  —  and 
that  had  settled  it.  Prudence  Jane  was  duly  entered  at 
the  end  of  the  list  in  the  middle  of  the  Family  Bible,  and 
her  career  began. 

£T  Through  eight  years  she  was  just  unmitigated  Prudence 
Jane,  —  not  a  syllable  of  it  could  ever  be  omitted  lest  one 
grandmother  or  the  other  be  slighted,  —  and  then  sud 
denly  one  day  shedecided  that  it  was  a  combination  no 
longer  to  be  borneji  She  hated  her  name  with  all  her  little 


soul;  therefore  sne  would  discard  it  and  take  another. 
This  sounded  simple,  but  there  were,  in  fact,  several  com- 
plications.  The  most  important  was  Aunt  Annie.  \Never 
a  really  progressive  spirit,  in  this  matter  of  names  Aunt 
Annie  showed  herself  to  be  an  out-and-out  stand-patterj 

'You  wish  that  you  had  been  called  Gwendolin?'  she 
echoed  in  horror,  as  she  combed  out  the  pale  yellow  hair 
at  bed-time.  *  Why,  Prudence  Jane,  I'm  ashamed  of  you. 
Gwendolin  is  a  very  silly  name  indeed,  and  you  have  two 
such  noble  ones.  I  only  hope  that  you  will  grow  up  to  be 
like  the  beautiful  grandmammas  who  gave  them  to  you' 
—  which  was  a  truly  lovely  little  bit  of  optimism  on  Aunt 
Annie's  part. 

ii 

Prudence  Jane  did  not  consult  Aunt  Annie  further. 
That  very  night,  however,  staring  up  into  the  darkness 
from  her  little  white  bed,  she  decided  upon  a  new  com 
bination.  Andjwhen  the  Reverend  Mr.  Sanders  came  up 
to  her  the  next  day  after  Sunday  School,  and  inquired 
kindly  what  little  girl  this  was,  Prudence  Jane  was  quite 
prepared  to  tell  himj  with  the  transparent  look  which  so 
frightened  dear  old  Grandma  Piper)  that  it  was  Imogen 
4  Rose. 

V_She  fully  meant  to  inform  her  family  of  this  interesting 


62  POSSESSING  PRUDENCE 

change  as  soon  as  she  got  home  from  Sunday  School,  but 
when  she  tiptoed  into  the  parlor  Aunt  Annie,  in  all  the 
majesty  of  her  plum-colored  satin,  was  sitting  in  a  straight- 
backed  chair  reading  The  Christian  Word  and  Work,  and 
looked  unreceptive  to  new  ideas.  So  Prudence  Jane  tip 
toed  out  again,  to  await  a  more  favorable  moment. 

Unfortunately,  before  that  moment  arrived  she  had  a 
falling-out  with  her  brother  Peter.  This  was  a  mistake, 
for  it  was  the  part  of  prudence  always  to  make  an  ally  of 
Peter  Piper.  He  had  discovered  Prudence  Jane  flat  on 
the  floor  in  a  corner  of  the  library,  scratching  her  name 
out  of  the  Family  Bible  with  an  ink-eraser. 

'Did  the  minister  tell  you  to  write  Imogen  in?'  he  in 
quired  blandly,  as  he  stood  in  the  doorway  with  his  hands 
in  his  corduroys. 

'None  of  your  business,'  retorted  Prudence  Jane,  closing 
the  Bible  with  a  bang  and  sitting  down  upon  it. 

The  result  was  that  Peter  Piper,  from  whom  nothing 
was  ever  hidden,  went  off  and  told  Aunt  Annie  all  about 
Imogen  Rose  and  the  minister.  Whereupon  Aunt  Annie, 
with  her  usual  limited  point  of  view,  had  pronounced  it  a 
very  monstrous  fib  indeed,  and  had  sent  Prudence  Jane 
instantly  into  the  cornerT7 

(A  lie's  an  abominatibn  unto  the  Lord  three  hundred  and 
ninety-eight,  a  lie's  an  abomination  unto  the  Lord  three 
hundred  and  ninety-nine,  a  lie's  an  abomination  unto  the 
Lord  four  hundred,'  finished  Prudence  Jane  at  a  canter, 
and  whisked  around  from  her  corner. 

Aunt  Annie  beckoned  with  solemn  finger. 

'  To-morrow,  Prudence  Jane,'  she  said,  looking  across  the 
sewing-table,  'I  am  going  to  take  you  to  see  the  minister 
and  you  must  tell  him  yourself  what  your  real  name  is, 
and  what  a  dreadful  story  you  have  told  him.  I  shall  ask 
him  what  he  thinks  should  be  done  with  a  little  girl  who 


POSSESSING  PRUDENCE  63 

cannot  speak  the  truth.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  he 
will  say.  But  we  can't  deceive  a  minister.  They  always 
know  when  they  hear  a  fib. ' 

'Do  they?'  asked  Prudence  Jane,  openly  interested,  her 
round  eyes  fastened  upon  her  aunt. 

'Always,'  replied  Aunt  Annie  rashly. 

'Then  why  do  I  have  to  go  and  tell  him?  asked  "Pru 
dence  Jane. 

*  Prudence  Jane,'  said  Aunt  Annie,  'you  are  a  very  saucy 
little  girl,  and  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  is  going  to 
become  of  you.' 

Prudence  Jane  walked  slowly  out  of  the  room.  She  was 
considering  what  Aunt  Annie  had  said  about  ministers, 
and  she  wondered  if  it  were  true.  As  she  went  tripping 
down  the  stairs  she  decided  to  put  the  Reverend  Mr.  San 
ders  to  a  test  the  very  next  time  she  met  him.  And  that 
was  why  it  was  so  surprising,  when  she  peeked  through 
the  hall  window  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  to  behold  him 
diligently  wiping  his  feet  on  the  door-mat. 

'How  do  you  do?'  said  Prudence  Jane  politely,  as  she 
opened  the  door. 

*  Why,  good  afternoon,  Imogen,'  said  the  minister,  shak 
ing  hands  cordially. 

'Prudence  Jane  made  the  little  knix  that  she  had  learned 
at  German  school.  It  was  always  the  finishing  touch  to 
Prudence  Jane.  The  Reverend  Mr.  Sanders  looked  down 
u^joTTTt  with  a  most  friendly  smile. 

'Is  your  aunt  at  home?'  he-asked,  placing,  his  hat  on 
the  table  and  following  Prudence  Jane  into  the  parlor. 

'Yes,'  she  said  with  simple  candor.  A  fib  of  that  sort 
was  quite  beneath  Prudence  Jane. 

Then  she  sat  down  on  a  velvet  sofa,  spread  out  her  little 
blue  skirt,  folded  her  hands  in  her  lap  and  crossed  her 
ankle-ties,  y  She  had  never  in  her  life  looked  so  much  like 


64  POSSESSING  PRUDENCE 

little 'Bertie  A  The  Reverend  Mr.  Sanders,  regarding  her 
from  an  opposite  chair,  waited  for  her  to  open  her  lips  and 
say, '  Speak,  Lord,  for  thy  servant  heareth.'  Instead,  thut 
k  wbfttnpho  oftid:- 

'Is  Eliza  Anna  Bomination  your  grandmother?' 

'I  beg  pardon,'  said  the  Reverend  Mr.  Sanders. 

'Is  she  dead  and  gone  to  heaven,  and  that's  why  you 
say  "unto  the  Lord"?'  continued-Prudence  Jane. 

'I  wonder,  Imogen,'  he  said,  'if  you  would  mind  begin 
ning  over  again.' 

'I  say,  is  Eliza  Anna  Bomination  your  grandmother?' 
repeated  Prudence  Jane.  '  Aunt  Annie  says  she's  written 
down  in  the  middle  of  your  Bible  where  all  people's  rela 
tions  are,  and  she  sounded  like  a  grandmother;  they  al 
ways  have  such  horrid  names.' 

The  minister  looked  across  at  the  velvet  sofa  with  eyes 
that  entirely  contradicted  the  gravity  of  his  face. 

'  No, '  he  said, '  I'm  sorry,  but  she  is  n't .  I  wish  she  were. 
I-never  heard  of  such  a  jolly  grandmother.' 

'Is  she  an  aunt?'  pursued  his  small  interlocutor. 

'I'm  afraid  that  she's  not  even  related  by  marriage,'  he 
replied. 

'  Is  n't  she  written  down  in  the  middle  of  your  Bible  at 
all?'  said  Prudence  Jane. 

The  minister  shook  his  head. 

'No,'  he  said,  'I'm  afraid  not.' 

'Then  Aunt  Annie  told  a  whopper,'  announced  Prudence 
Jane  with  satisfaction. 

'We  should  not  malign  the  absent,'  said  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Sanders.  'And  that  being  the  case,  suppose  you  go 
up  at  this  point,  Imogen,  and  tell  your  Aunt  Annie  that 
I  jim  here.' 

^Prudence  Jane  wondered  what  'maligning  the  absent' 
was.    She  distrusted  gentlemen  who  made  cryptic  remarks 


POSSESSING  PRUDENCE  65 

of  this  sort.    It  was  a  way  her  brother  Horace  had.J  She 
saw  that  the  moment  had  now  arrived  to  test  Aunt  Annie's 
theory  about  ministers  and  fibs! 
'She  can't  come  down,'  she-replied. 

*  Can't  come  down?  '  repeated  the  minister. 

'No,'  said  Prudence  Jane,  looking  at  him  out  of  the 
depths  of  her  forget-me-not  eyes,  *  she's  washed  her  hair/X' 

'Oh,'  said  the  Reverend  Mr.  Sanders,  in  the  tone  of  one 
who.  finds  the  conversation  getting  definitely  beyond  him. 

At  this  moment  an  apparition  with  a  round  face  and  a 
pair  of  corduroy  shoulders  suddenly  darkened  the  open 
window. 

*  A  lie  is  an  SL-bom-i-na-tion  un-to  the  Lord,'  it  sang;  and, 
catching  sight  of  the  clerical  back,  vanished  hastily. 

'Interesting  chorus,'  observed  the  Reverend  Mr.  San 
ders. 

Prudence  Jane  paid  no  heed  to  this  interruption. 
I'  It's  hanging  down  her  back  now,'  sho-p  limited,  iaimeh- 
w^  'It  comes 


clear  down  to  here.'  And  standing  up,  she  indicated  a 
point  halfway  between  her  ankle-ties  and  the  bottom  of 
her  ridiculous  skirt. 

The  minister  gazed  fascinated.  Prudence  Jane  sat  down 
again. 

'She  washed  it  with  Packer's  Tar  Soap,'  she  said,  her 
eyes  fixed  upon  her  victim. 

She  was  quite  unable  to  make  out  whether  Aunt  Annie 
was  right  about  ministers  or  not.  The  Reverend  Mr. 
Sanders  looked  like  the  Sphinx. 

'  She  gave  a  piece  to  a  gentleman  once,'  went  on  Prudence 
Jane,  warming  to  her  work.  'He  was  n't  a  very  nice  gen 
tleman.  He  was  a  —  a  —  •  '  she  hesitated  a  moment  over 
a  fitting  climax,  —  'a  —  a  Piskerpalyan,'  she  finished. 


66  POSSESSING  PRUDENCE 

*  Mercy!'  said  the  Reverend  Mr.  Sanders,  finding  his 
voice  at  last.  'And  what,  may  I  ask,  are  you?' 

Prudence  Jane  looked  faintly  surprised. 

'I/  she  said,  with  pride  and  composure,  'am  an  Orthy 
Dox  Congo  Gationist.' 

'Yes,'  said  the  Reverend  Mr.  Sanders,  'so  I  suspected 
from  the  first.' 

And  now  what  did  he  mean  by  that,  thought  Prudence 
Jane  to  herself.  She  could  no  longer  see  his  face.  He  had 
turned  abruptly  in  his  chair  and  was  watching  something 
through  the  aperture  in  the  portieres. 

Prudence  Jane  heard  the  thump  of  a  pair  of  shoes  plod 
ding  up  the  stairs  and  along  the  upper  hall.  She  knew 
that  it  was  Peter  Piper  going  to  find  Aunt  Annie.  I  There 
was  a  stir  in  the  room  overhead,  then  the  mufHed  sound  of 
a  rocking-chair  suddenly  abandoned,  followed  by  the  swish 
of  skirts  coming  along  the  passage  and  down  the  stairs. 

Prudence  Jane  sat  with  parted  lips  on  the  edge  of  the 
sofa. 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Sanders  looked  decidedly  nervous, 
but  he  rose  and  presented  a  bold  front  to  whatever  might 
be  coming  to  him  through  those  portieres.  In  another 
moment  they  were  pushed  hastily  aside,  and  Aunt  Annie, 
crowned  with  a  quite  faultless  coiffure,  hurried  into  the 
room. 

'Why,  Mr.  Sanders,'  she  said,  'I  did  not  know  until  this 
minute  that  you  were  here.' 

Then  her  eye  fell  upon  her  niece./  Prudence  Jane  was 
now  standing  in  front  of  the  sofa,  tracing  the  pattern  of 
the  carpet  with  the  toe  of  an  ankle-tie. 

' '  Why  did  n't  you  tell  me  that  Mr.  Sanders  was  waiting? ' 
demanded  Aunt  Annie  sternly./ 

prudence  Jane  continued  to  gaze  at  the  carpet. 

.  Sanders,'  said  Aunt  Annie,  who  never  postponed  a 


POSSESSING  PRUDENCE  67 

disagreeable  duty,  'we  have  a  little  girl  here  who  cannot 
speak  the  truth,  and  we  are  going  to  ask  you  to  tell  us 
what  becomes  of  people  who  tell  wrong  stories/^ 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Sanders  looked  ill  at  ease. 

'Come  here,'  continued  Aunt  Annie,  holding  out  her 
hand  toward  the  velvet  sofa. 

Prudence  Jane  moved  reluctantly  across  the  room. 

'And  now/  went  on  the  voice  of  the  accuser,  'she  has 
even  deceived  her  minister,  and  she  has  come  to  make  her 
little  confession.  Tell  Mr.  Sanders/  directed  Aunt  Annie, 
'the  truth  about  that  wicked  fib/ 

'Which  one?'  inquired  Prudence  Jane  meekly. 

'You  know  very  well  which/  answered  her  exasperated 
aunt;  'the  last  one/ 

Prudence  Jane  lifted  her  blue  eyes  from  the  carpet  and 
looked  straight  at  the  unfortunate  Mr.  Sanders. 

'She  did  n't  give  any  of  it  to  the  Piskerpalyan/  she  said.' 

Then  she  4urnod  and  walked  discreetly  through  the 
portieres,/  She  felt  that  it  was  no  moment  to  stay  and 
learn  what  became  of  little  girls  who  told  whoppers. 

'Didn't  give  who  what?'  she  could  hear  Aunt  Annie 
saying  vaguely  on  the  other  side  of  the  curtains. 

But  Prudence  Jane  decided  to  let  her  minister  explain. 


THE  GLORY-BOX 

BY   ELIZABETH   ASHE 


IN  Southern  Ohio  a  girl's  wedding  chest  is  her  Glory- 
Box.  If,  like  Mabe1  Bennet,  you  are  the  daughter  of  a  suc 
cessful  druggist,  the  box  is  of  cedarwood,  delivered  free  of 
charge  by  the  Dayton  department  stores;  but  if,  like  Eunice 
Day,  you  are  the  daughter  of  an  unsuccessful  bookkeeper 
who  has  left  a  life  insurance  inadequate  even  when  sup 
plemented  by  the  salary  you  earn  teaching  primary  chil 
dren,  then  the  box  is  just  a  box,  covered  with  gay  cretonne, 
and  serving  the  purpose  very  nicely. 

When  Eunice  Day's  engagement  became  known,  Mabel, 
remembering  the  scalloped  guest-towels  which  Eunice  had 
given  her  some  months  before,  brought  over  one  afternoon 
an  offering  wrapped  in  tissue  paper. 

'I  hope  you'll  like  this,  Eunice/  she  said.  'It's  just  a 
sack,  —  what  they  call  a  matinee.  I've  found  them  very 
useful.' 

Mabel  spoke  with  the  slightly  complacent  air  of  the 
three  months'  bride. 

*  Why,  it's  ever  so  dear  of  you  to  go  to  so  much  trouble,' 
said  Eunice,  taking  the  package  into  her  hands.  She  was 
a  tall,  slender  girl,  with  dark  eyes  and  a  pretty  dignity  of 
bearing.  'I'll  have  to  open  it  right  now,  I  guess.  You 
are  n't  in  a  hurry,  are  you? ' 

'Oh,  no,  not  especially.  Harry  does  n't  get  home  until 
quarter  past  six,  and  I've  fixed  the  vegetables.  Just  you 
go  ahead/ 


THE  GLORY-BOX  69 

Eunice  untied  the  white  ribbon.     'Why,  Mabel,  it's 
beautiful,  and  such  a  delicate  shade  of  pink ! ' 
She  held  the  sack  at  arm's  length. 
' I'm  glad  you  like  it.     It's  nothing  wonderful,  of  course.' 
'It  couldn't  be  more  pretty,  and  Stephen  loves  pink.     I 
wrote  him  the  other  day  that  I  had  made  a  pink  kimono 
and  I  hoped  he  would  like  it.     He  wrote  back  that  pink 
was  —  was  the  color  of  dawn  and  apple-blossoms.' 

Mabel  laughed.  'Stephen  has  a  funny  way  of  saying 
things,  hasn't  he?' 

'Why,  I  don't  know,'  said  Eunice,  flushing. 
'Oh,  well,'  went  on  Mabel  good-naturedly,  'I  do  think 
you  look  nice  in  pink  with  your  dark  hair.  Harry  always 
tells  me  to  stick  to  blue.  It's  the  color  for  blondes.  Don't 
you  want  to  show  me  your  things?  I  won't  mind  if  the 
ribbons  are  n't  all  run  in  yet.' 

'  I'd  like  to  show  them  to  you,  of  course.  Come  upstairs. 
They'll  look  nicer  though  when  they  are  all  pressed  out,' 
said  Eunice,  laying  the  sack  carefully  back  in  its  paper 
wrappings.  She  carried  it  on  outstretched  palms. 

'Do  you  know  when  you're  going  to  be  married?'  asked 
Mabel  as  she  reached  the  top  of  the  narrow  stairs. 

'We  have  n't  made  plans  yet.  Probably  Stephen  won't 
want  to  for  another  year.  It  depends  on  so  many  things.' 
'I  suppose  so,'  said  Mabel,  following  Eunice  into  her 
bedroom.  It  was  a  small  room  but  pretty.  Eunice  had 
recently  put  four  coats  of  white  paint  on  her  oak  set. 
'Lawyers,'  continued  Mabel  sympathetically,  'have  to  wait 
so  much  longer.  Now  Harry  knew  to  a  cent  what  salary 
he  was  getting  when  he  proposed  to  me,  and  he  knew  what 
his  raise  would  probably  be  for  the  next  two  years.  The 
Wire  Company  is  a  square  concern.  There's  your  Glory- 
Box  !  It  looks  awfully  nice.  You  made  it,  didn't  you? ' 
'Stephen  made  it  when  he  was  on  for  his  vacation  last 


70  THE  GLORY-BOX 

summer.  We  happened  to  have  the  cretonne  in  the  house. 
Mother  wanted  me  to  buy  a  cedar  chest  but  I  thought  this 
would  do.' 

'Oh,  one  does  n't  really  need  a  cedar  chest/  said  Mabel 
cheerfully,  'and  they're  terribly  expensive,  you  know.' 

'Yes,  I  do  know.'  Eunice's  face  twinkled.  'I'll  lay  this 
sack  on  the  bed  so  it  won't  get  mussed  while  I'm  showing 
you  the  things.' 

She  raised  the  lid  of  the  Glory-Box,  then  glanced  shyly 
at  the  other  girl.  'You're  the  first  person  I've  shown 
them  to.  I  hope  you'll  think  they're  dainty.  There  isn't 
much  lace  on  them,  but  mother  put  in  a  lot  of  handwork 
—  feather-stitching.' 

'Lace  is  a  bother  to  do  up,'  Mabel  said  amiably.  Tve 
been  almost  distracted  doing  up  mine.' 

'Your  things  were  beautiful,  though.'  Eunice  was  lay 
ing  piles  of  carefully  folded  garments  on  the  edge  of  the 
box. 

'There,  I've  got  it  now,'  she  said,  getting  up  from  the 
floor.  'This  is  my  prettiest  set.  I've  kept  it  wrapped  in 
dark  blue  paper.  Mother  said  it  would  keep  white  longer. ' 
'Why,  they  are  sweet,  Eunice!'  Mabel  touched  the  soft 
white  stuff  with  appraising  fingers.  'And  all  made  by 
hand.  My,  what  a  lot  of  work !  Your  mother  must  have 
spent  hours  on  them.' 

'She  did.  She  said  she  wanted  to  do  it,  though.  The 
other  things  are  plainer.'  Eunice  took  them  up  one  by 
one  and  showed  them.  'I  won't  let  you  see  the  table 
linen  to-day.  I've  done  a  lot  of  initialing,  but  they  don't 
look  really  well  until  they  have  been  washed.' 

'No,  they  don't.  Anyway  I  have  to  be  going.  You 
certainly  have  nice  things,  Eunice.  That  kimono  is 
awfully  pretty. 

'I  like  it,'  said  Eunice  simply. 


THE  GLORY-BOX  71 

'Well,  I  can't  stay  another  minute.  Don't  you  come 
down  to  the  door  now.  You  have  to  put  away  everything. 
I'll  just  run  along.  Come  and  see  me.  I've  got  the  flat 
all  settled.' 

'I  shall  love  to,  Mabel.  Just  a  moment!  You  must  let 
me  go  to  the  door  with  you.  The  Glory-Box  can  wait.' 

Eunice  found  her  mother  standing  by  the  bed  when  she 
came  back.  She  was  a  meagre-looking  woman  with  a 
thin  mouth.  Her  eyes  had  once  been  soft  and  dark  like 
Eunice's,  but  the  glow  had  gone  out  of  them,  leaving  them 
a  little  hard. 

'I've  been  looking  at  the  sack  Mabel  brought  you.  It's 
a  nice  pattern.  That  sort  of  lace  looks  almost  like  real  val. 
What  did  she  say  to  your  things?' 

'She  said  they  were  sweet,  mother.' 

'Well,  I  suppose  they  are  as  nice  as  any  one  could  have 
without  spending  money.  You  did  n't  show  her  the  table 
cloth  I  gave  you?' 

'No,  I  thought  I'd  wait  to  show  the  linen  until  it  was  all 
done  up.' 

Her  mother  fingered  the  lace  on  the  sack. 

'I  don't  believe  she  has  a  much  better  tablecloth  than 
that  one,  Eunice.  Do  you  suppose  so?' 

'  No,'  answered  Eunice, '  probably  not.  It's  very  beauti 
ful.'  She  laid  down  the  garment  she  was  folding  and  looked 
up,  troubled,  into  her  mother's  face.  'Oh,  it  seems  so 
selfish  for  me  to  have  it  all.  You've  always  wanted  nice 
fine  linen,  mother.' 

'I've  given  up  wanting,  I  guess.  I  don't  care  as  long  as 
you  have  them.  You  had  better  lay  tissue  paper  in  that 
sleeve,  Eunice,  the  way  I  showed  you.  I'll  start  supper  so 
that  you  can  put  these  things  away.  They  won't  look  like 
anything  if  you  leave  them  about.' 

When  her  mother  was  gone,  Eunice  took  up  the  pink 


72  THE  GLORY-BOX 

kimono  and  spread  it  out  on  the  bed.  She  could  fold  it 
more  carefully  that  way.  She  touched  it  with  caressing 
fingers.  'Dawn  and  apple-blossoms/  she  repeated  softly. 
Then  she  smiled,  remembering  Mabel's  remark:  'Stephen 
has  a  funny  way  of  saying  things.' 

Stephen  was  different  somehow  from  Harry,  from  any 
of  the  men  whom  her  friends  had  married.  They  were 
nice  young  men,  of  course,  all  of  them.  One  was  superin 
tendent  of  the  Sunday  School,  besides  getting  a  good  salary 
in  the  Cash  Register  Company;  another  had  gone  to  col 
lege,  had  been  in  Stephen's  class  at  the  Ohio  State  Uni 
versity  in  fact,  and  was  now  doing  well  as  part  owner  of  the 
garage  on  Main  Street;  stiU  another  was  paying-teller  in 
the  bank  next  to  the  garage;  he  wore  very  'good-looking' 
suits,  usually  with  a  tiny  line  of  white  at  the  edge  of  the 
waistcoat.  Still  Stephen  was  different. 

When  he  had  got  his  B.  A.  degree  at  Ohio,  he  decided  that 
he  wanted  to  be  a  lawyer,  and  that  he  would  go  to  one  of 
the  best  schools  in  the  country.  He  chose  Columbia.  He 
had  worked  his  way  through  college,  but  he  considered 
that  it  would  not  pay  to  work  his  way  through  Law  School. 
He  wanted  the  time  to  get  something  out  of  New  York. 
His  father  was  unable  to  advance  the  money,  so  Stephen 
went  to  a  friend  of  his  father's,  a  prosperous  coal-dealer  in 
the  town,  and  asked  that  he  lend  him  enough  to  put  him 
through  economically,  but  not,  he  plainly  said,  too  econom 
ically.  He  would  give  the  coal-dealer  notes,  payable  with 
interest  four  years  after  he  was  admitted  to  the  bar. 

The  coal-dealer,  taking  into  consideration  the  fact  that 
the  young  man  had  broken  every  record  at  the  university 
in  scholarship,  and  two  other  facts,  the  young  man's  fore 
head  and  mouth,  lent  him  the  money.  He  said  that  the 
interest  need  not  begin  until  he  was  admitted. 

Stephen  thanked  him  and  went  to  Columbia.     One  of 


THE  GLORY-BOX  73 

the  professors  there  took  a  great  fancy  to  him.  He  intro 
duced  him  to  his  sister,  a  maiden  lady  living  in  Washington 
Square,  who,  finding  him  very  likable,  introduced  him  to 
other  people  living  in  the  Square. 

Stephen  was  very  happy.  He  wrote  to  Eunice,  —  he  had 
been  engaged  to  her  since  the  end  of  his  second  year  at  the 
Law  School,  — •  *  Washington  Square  is  rather  terrifying 
from  the  outside,  but  once  inside  you  feel  beautifully  at 
home.  I  think  it's  the  perfect  breeding  you  find  there. 
I've  met  women  more  intellectual,  greater  perhaps,  than 
Professor  Lansing's  sister,  but  never  one  who  gives  such  an 
impression  of  completion.  There  are  no  loose  ends.  You 
will  like  her,  Eunice/ 

In  another  letter  he  said,  '  We  won't  have  much  money 
to  start  with,  of  course,  but  if  we  put  a  little  dignity  into  our 
kitchenette  apartment,  it  will  be  a  home  that  people  will 
love  to  come  to.  It's  partly  the  dignity  of  their  living 
that  makes  these  Washington  Square  people  so  worth  while 
to  be  with/ 

And  last  week  he  had  written,  *  You  won't  find  New  York 
lonely.  They  will  love  you,  dear.  You  belong.  You 
have  not  only  charm  but  the  dignity  that  belongs.  I  won 
der  if  I'm  foolish  to  care  so  much  for  that  word  dignity. 
Perhaps  it's  because  I  associate  it  with  you,  or  perhaps  — • 
I  love  you  because  you  have  it/ 

And  Eunice  too  was  happy  and  proud:  happy  that 
Stephen  was  coming  into  his  own,  and  proud  that  he  should 
think  her  equal  to  the  occasion.  It  would  not  be  an  easy 
task,  being  equal  to  Stephen.  Stephen  was  a  great  man, 
or  would  be  a  great  man.  She  knew  it  and  Stephen  knew 
it.  *  We  are  going  to  be  great,  you  and  I, '  he  had  said  more 
than  once.  And  yet  one  day  when  she  had  answered,  *  You 
and  I,  Stephen?'  his  eyes,  which  had  been  alight  with  the 
glorious  vision  of  the  future,  softened,  and  he  had  come  and 


74  THE  GLORY-BOX 

knelt  beside  her  and  had  laid  his  head  down.  *  Oh,  Eunice,' 
he  had  whispered,  'I've  got  brains;  I'm  pretty  sure  to  be 
successful;  but  if  I'm  worth  while,  it  will  be  because  of  you. 
You  are  a  great  woman,  dear.' 

And  Eunice  had  mothered  him  and  had  hoped  —  so  fer 
vently  that  the  hope  was  a  prayer — that  she  would  really 
be  great  enough  to  meet  his  needs. 

Sometimes  she  doubted.  She  had  dignity;  Stephen  had 
said  so;  but  inside  she  was  deprecating  and  shy.  People 
like  Mabel  Ashley  made  her  shy,  and  most  of  the  people 
she  knew  were  like  Mabel.  They  thought  Stephen's  way 
of  saying  and  thinking  things  *  funny.'  There  was  only 
one  woman  whom  she  could  talk  with,  a  High-School 
teacher  who  had  come  to  board  next  door.  She  and  the 
High-School  teacher  took  long  walks  together. 

The  High-School  teacher  had  been  to  Europe  twice. 
She  knew  how  people  lived  outside  of  this  little  Ohio  town 
— •  outside  of  the  United  States  even.  She  was  full  of 
shrewd  comment.  Eunice  talked  to  her  about  the  books 
that  she  and  Stephen  were  reading,  and  sometimes  about 
Stephen  himself.  Several  times  the  High-School  teacher 
had  said,  'He  is  splendid,  Eunice.' 

Eunice  thought  about  her  this  afternoon  as  she  put  the 
last  things  away  in  the  Glory-Box.  She  hoped  that,  if  the 
Washington  Square  people  wrere  like  this  teacher,  she  would 
get  along.  And  there  came  another  encouraging  thought. 
The  people  in  the  Square  were  sure  of  themselves  of  course, 
but  perhaps  they  were  sure  because  they  had  things  and 
had  always  had  things.  She  would  one  day  have  the 
things  in  her  Glory-Box,  and  she  would  have  Stephen. 
After  she  was  quite  used  to  having  them  and  to  having  a 
person  like  Stephen,  she  would  be  sure  of  herself  too. 

'Supper  will  be  ready  in  five  minutes,  Eunice,' 

'I'm  coming  in  a  moment,' 


THE  GLORY-BOX  75 

The  room  had  grown  quite  dark.  Eunice  lighted  two 
candles  standing  on  her  bureau.  They  were  in  common 
glass  candlesticks  which  she  had  bought  at  the  Ten  Cent 
store:  she  had  wanted  to  have  brass;  but  then,  Stephen 
and  she  were  going  to  have  brass  candlesticks  in  every 
room  of  their  house.  They  both  loved  candle-light. 

Eunice  smoothed  her  dark  hair.  Then  she  washed  her 
hands  very  carefully.  Stephen  had  said  once  that  they 
were  not  wonderfully  pretty  hands,  but  that  they  had  dis 
tinction.  He  had  kissed  them. 

*I  guess  I'm  all  right  now,'  said  Eunice,  glancing  into  the 
mirror.  She  picked  up  a  photograph  of  Stephen  from  the 
bureau  and  laid  her  face  against  it.  Then  she  blew  out  the 
candles  and  went  downstairs. 


II 

Stephen's  letter  that  awaited  her  when  she  came  home 
from  school  the  next  afternoon  was  a  one-page  scrawl. 

*  My  head  is  ringing  so  with  the  quinine  I've  taken  that  I 
can't  write  to-night.     By  to-morrow  I  shall  probably  be 
rid  of  this  beastly  cold.     I  want  to  tell  you  about  a  book 
I've  just  read.     It's  great  stuff.'     He  added  a  postscript: 

*  Don't  ask  me,  dear,  if  I  wore  my  rubbers  day  before  yes 
terday.     You  know  I  didn't.' 

In  Eunice's  eyes  was  a  smile  of  amused  tenderness  as  she 
put  the  letter  back  in  its  envelope.  If  the  cold  were 
'  beastly, '  perhaps  he  might  remember  next  time.  She  was 
afraid  though  that  only  married  men  wore  rubbers. 

No  letter  came  the  next  day,  or  the  next. 

'If  I  don't  hear  to-morrow,  I'll  telegraph.' 

'He's  probably  busy,'  said  her  mother. 

'I'm  afraid  he's  sick.' 

Eunice  waited  for  the  postman  on  Saturday  morning, 


76  THE  GLORY-BOX 

but  he  brought  her  no  letter.  She  put  on  her  hat  and 
coat. 

'I'll  be  back  in  a  half  hour,  mother/ 

As  she  went  down  the  steps  a  boy  riding  a  bicycle  stopped 
at  the  curb.  He  handed  her  a  telegram.  It  was  from 
Stephen's  landlady.  Stephen  had  died  that  morning  at 
two  o'clock  —  of  pneumonia. 

Eunice  was  conscious  of  being  very  collected  and  calm 
as  she  went  back  into  the  house;  quite  wonderfully  calm. 
Her  mother  was  in  the  kitchen.  Eunice  went  to  her  and 
told  her  —  very  gently.  She  had  the  feeling  that  it  was 
her  mother's  sorrow.  Her  mother's  dry,  hard  sobs  and 
bowed  figure  brought  the  tears  to  her  eyes.  She  laid  her 
hand  on  the  thin  convulsed  shoulders.  *  Mother,  don't  — 
don't,  dear,  it's  all  right,  you  know.'  She  stood  by  her 
chair  until  the  sobs  ceased. 

'  I'm  going  around  to  —  to  Stephen's,  mother.  I'll  not 
be  gone  long.' 

Mrs.  Day  followed  her  to  the  steps;  her  face  was  pitifully 
pinched,  almost  old.  At  the  gate  Eunice  turned  and  saw  her. 

*  Poor  mother ! '  She  wanted  to  go  back  and  kiss  her  but 
she  dared  not. 

Stephen's  home  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  town.  It 
was  a  small  frame  house  painted  light  gray,  with  a  gable 
back  and  front,  and  a  narrow  porch  running  across  it. 
This  morning  the  shades  in  the  parlor  were  drawn  down. 

Eunice  had  to  wait  some  moments  before  the  door  was 
opened  by  Stephen's  young  sister  —  a  slip  of  a  thing  but  a 
capable  housekeeper.  Her  eyes  were  swollen  with  crying. 
*  She's  so  little,'  thought  Eunice,  and  took  her  in  her  arms. 

When  the  girl  was  able  to  speak,  she  told  Eunice  that 
her  father  had  gone  to  New  York,  and  that  he  would  bring 
Stephen  home.  Eunice  stayed  an  hour,  comforting, 
talking,  planning.  Then  she  left  her. 


THE  GLORY-BOX  77 

'I'm  so  quiet.     I  did  n't  know  it  could  be  like  this/ 

The  March  wind  blew  the  dust  into  her  face.  The  grit 
irritated  her.  She  wished  there  were  snow  on  the  ground 
and  then  wondered  that  she  should  care.  That  was  how  it 
was  the  next  two  days:  she  went  on  thinking  and  acting, 
with  every  now  and  then  this  strange  awareness  of  being 
alive. 

But  on  Monday  afternoon  when  they  came  home  from 
the  cemetery,  Eunice  went  upstairs  to  her  room. 

'I'm  going  to  lie  down  a  while,  mother/ 

Her  mother  made  no  answer  as  she  turned  into  the 
kitchen. 

Eunice  lay  down  on  the  bed.  A  pale  yellow  sunset 
gleamed  through  the  branches  of  the  tree  outside  her  win 
dow.  She  had  seen  the  yellow  streak  in  the  sky  as  they 
had  left  the  cemetery.  She  closed  her  eyes  to  shut  it  out. 
Her  heart  was  no  longer  numb.  It  was  waking  to  its 
misery.  She  lay  very  still  with  clenched  hands.  She  had 
learned  to  bear  physical  pain  that  way.  She  thought  per 
haps  she  could  bear  this  if  she  lay  very  still. 

*I  want  to  tell  you  about  a  book  I've  just  read.  It's 
great  stuff/ 

*O  Stephen,  Stephen,  laddie!' 

The  tears  came,  and  great  sobs  that  shook  and  twisted 
her  rigid  body.  Once  she  thought  her  mother  came  up 
the  stairs  and  stopped  outside  her  door.  She  buried  her 
face  in  the  pillow.  Her  mother  must  not  hear.  By  and 
by,  —  she  had  been  quiet  for  an  hour,  —  her  mother  came 
in  with  a  tray. 

'  I've  made  you  some  toast  and  tea,  Eunice.  You  must 
keep  up  your  strength/ 

Her  tone  was  flat  and  emotionless.  She  set  the  tray 
down  by  her  in  the  darkness.  Then  she  lighted  the  gas. 

Eunice  swallowed  the  tea  obediently,  she  was  so  very 


78  THE  GLORY-BOX 

tired.     As  she  put  the  cup  down  her  eyes  fell  on  the  cre 
tonne-covered  box  in  the  window. 

*  Mother,  my  Glory-Box!    Don't  let  me  see  it!    Oh, 
don't  let  me  see  my  Glory-Box!' 

Mrs.  Day  came  up  to  the  bed.  Til  take  it  out  to-mor 
row  while  you  are  at  school.  I  meant  to  do  that.'  Her 
face  worked  as  she  left  the  room. 

When  the  door  closed,  Eunice  sat  up  and  pushed  her 
tumbled  hair  back  from  her  face.  She  wanted  to  look  at 
the  Glory-Box.  To-morrow  her  mother  was  going  to  take 
it  away.  She  clasped  her  hands  tightly  about  her  drawn- 
up  knees  and  stared  at  the  box  with  hot,  miserable  eyes. 
Of  course  it  would  have  to  be  taken  away,  but  she  wanted 
to  look  at  it  now  because  it  was  her  Glory-Box  and  because 
it  was  Stephen's.  Stephen  had  made  it. 

*  That's  a  decent  job  for  just  a  lawyer,'  he  had  said,  when 
the  last  nail  was  driven  in  and  they  were  taking  a  critical 
survey  of  it. 

Stephen  had  laughed  when  she  regretted  that  the  roses 
in  the  cretonne  were  yellow,  because  the  things  to  go  into 
the  box  very  likely  would  be  pink.  He  had  laughed  and 
kissed  her  and  told  her  she  had  better  get  a  pair  of  pink 
specs,  then  the  roses  would  be  pink  enough. 

And  Stephen  had  taken  such  an  interest  in  what  she  had 
written  about  the  things  she  was  embroidering  for  house 
hold  use.  When  she  had  reported  a  whole  dozen  napkins 
hemmed  and  initialed,  he  had  thought  it  would  be  jolly  to 
have  nice  linen.  They  would  probably  be  short  on  silver 
at  first,  but  good  linen  made  you  feel  respectable.  He 
remembered  his  mother  taking  so  much  pride  in  what  had 
been  left  of  hers.  For  a  moment  the  words  of  that  letter 
were  so  vividly  recalled  that  she  forgot  that  Stephen  was 
dead.  For  quite  a  moment  she  was  happy.  Then  she 


THE  GLORY-BOX  79 

remembered,  but  the  realization  brought  no  tears,  only  a 
swelling  wave  of  misery. 

*I  can't  bear  it,  oh,  I  can't!' 

But  even  as  she  moaned  she  knew  that  she  would  bear 
it,  that  she  would  go  on  living  for  years  and  years  and 
years.  Other  girls  she  had  known  or  heard  about  — -  in  her 
own  town  — •  had  gone  on  living :  little  Sadie  Smith  whose 
lover  had  been  killed  three  days  before  her  wedding,  and 
even  Milly  Petersen,  who  had  been  engaged  for  five  years 
when  the  man  asked  to  be  released  because  he  wanted  to 
marry  the  girl  who  had  recently  moved  to  Milly's  street. 
These  girls  had  lived;  they  had  grown  pale  and  faded,  or 
hard.  People  felt  very  sorry  for  them:  they  were  spoken 
of  as  'poor  Milly,'  or  *  Sadie  Smith,  poor  child';  but  they 
had  lived.  Eunice  saw  herself  moving  among  her  little 
circle,  brave  and  sad-eyed  like  these  girls. 

Suddenly  — •  she  never  remembered  just  how  it  came 
about  — •  suddenly  her  humor  flashed  a  white  light  over  the 
vision.  This  sad-eyed  Self  seemed  something  not  to  pity 
but  to  scorn.  It  was  grotesque  standing  in  your  friend's 
parlor  with  clenched  hands,  as  it  were,  and  compressed 
lips,  saying,  *  Don't  mind  me,  please.  I'm  bearing  it.'  If 
one  were  going  to  live  one  must  live  happily.  Stephen  was 
such  a  happy  person.  He  was  happy  when  he  was  work 
ing  or  playing  or  just  loving.  Even  hurdy-gurdys  made 
him  happy. 

*  When  I  hear  one  grinding  away  in  the  morning/  he  had 
written,  *  I  have  to  kick  a  few  Law  Journals  about  just  to 
keep  in  tune  with  the  darn  thing.' 

It  had  been  a  delightful  surprise  to  her,  his  overflowing 
happiness,  for  Stephen's  face  in  repose  was  very  grave. 
She  herself  only  occasionally  had  his  joy  in  mere  living,  but 
she  had  always  thought  that  Stephen's  joyfulness  would 
prove  infectious.  Suppose,  now,  without  Stephen  she 


80  THE  GLORY-BOX 

should  make  the  experiment  of  being  nappy.  It  would  be 
a  wonderful  experiment  to  see,  — •  she  spoke  the  words 
aloud,  deliberately,  —  to  see  if  she  could  kill  this  terrible 
thing,  Sorrow,  and  keep  Stephen  to  love  and  to  remember. 

Eunice  was  still  staring  at  the  Glory-Box,  but  it  was 
more  than  her  Glory-Box.  It  was  part  of  the  problem  that 
she  was  trying  to  think  out  clearly.  For  perhaps  sorrow 
was  a  problem  that  you  could  work  out  like  other  problems, 
if  only  you  could  see  it,  not  as  one  solid,  opaque  mass,  but 
as  something  made  up  of  pieces  that  you  could  deal  with 
one  at  a  time.  The  Glory-Box  was  a  piece.  She  had 
wanted  it  taken  away  because  it  was  a  thing  so  filled  with 
pain  that  she  could  not  bear  to  have  it  about.  If  — •  Eunice 
got  up  in  her  excitement  and  walked  up  and  down  the 
room  —  if  the  Glory-Box  could  become  a  box  again,  just  a 
box  covered  with  cretonne,  and  the  things  in  it  become 
things,  then  a  great  piece  of  misery  would  disappear.  Love, 
a  girl's  love,  was  like  —  she  groped  a  moment  for  words  — 
like  a  vine  that  puts  forth  little  shoots  and  tendrils;  love 
even  went  into  things.  When  Death  trampled  on  the 
vine,  the  shoots  and  tendrils  were  crushed  with  it.  But  if 
you  cut  them  off,  these  poor  bruised  pieces  of  the  vine,  the 
vine  itself  would  perhaps  have  a  chance  to  become  strong 
and  beautiful. 

Eunice  played  with  the  idea,  her  cheeks  flushed,  her 
eyes  very  bright.  She  felt  as  she  did  sometimes  when 
talking  on  paper  with  Stephen. 

She  went  over  to  the  Glory-Box  and  raised  the  cover. 
On  top  lay  the  matinee  that  Mabel  had  brought  on  that 
day  not  quite  a  week  ago.  She  unfolded  it  and  touched 
it.  'This  is  n't — Stephen,'  she  said  aloud,  quite  firmly. 
'It's  cotton  voile  and  val  lace.  It's  cotton  voile.' 

She  took  out  garment  after  garment.  When  she  came 
to  the  pink  kimono  her  eyes  blinded  with  tears.  'It's  a 


THE  GLORY-BOX  81 

lovely  shade.  Pink  is  pretty  with  dark  hair.'  Her  quiver 
ing  lips  could  scarcely  frame  the  words.  *  It's  not  Stephen. 
It's  —  it's  just  a  kimono.' 

She  put  the  things  back  and  closed  the  box.  Til  look 
at  the  rest  in  a  day  or  two.  I'll  keep  looking  at  them. 
Probably  I  shall  never  be  able  to  use  them,  but  I'll  keep 
looking  until  I  get  accustomed  to  seeing  them.  Mother 
will  get  used  to  seeing  the  box  here.  If  she  put  it  in  the 
storeroom  she  would  always  dread  going  in.' 

Mrs.  Day  was  getting  breakfast  the  next  morning  when 
Eunice  came  down.  She  went  on  mechanically  with  her 
preparation,  avoiding  looking  at  her.  At  the  table  she 
glanced  up.  Eunice's  face  was  white  and  haggard,  but 
her  eyes,  strangely  big,  were  shining.  Eunice's  mother 
watched  her  furtively  throughout  the  meal.  As  they  left 
the  table  Eunice  put  her  arms  about  her. 

'  Don't  take  the  box  out,  mother.  It's  better  to  get  used 
to  it.  I'm  trying  to  get  used  to  things.  Don't  you  worry 
about  me.  You'll  see.' 

She  kissed  her  and  hurried  to  school.  In  her  exalted 
mood  the  sympathetic  attentions  of  the  other  teachers 
seemed  almost  surprising.  They  were  dear  and  kind,  but 
why  should  they  be  so  kind  ?  She  was  going  to  be  happy. 
At  the  end  of  the  day,  however,  Eunice  let  herself  softly 
into  the  house,  too  wretched  to  want  to  meet  her  mother. 
She  carried  to  her  room  the  letters  of  condolence  that  were 
on  the  dining-room  table.  She  read  them  impassively, 
even  the  kindly  one  from  Miss  Lansing,  wondering  why 
they  did  not  touch  her.  'It's  because  I'm  tired,'  she 
concluded,  and  knelt  down  by  the  Glory-Box,  bowing  her 
head  on  her  outstretched  arms. 

'Stephen,  dear,'  she  prayed,  'I  can't  look  at  the  things 
to-night.  I'm  too  tired.' 

But  the  next  day  she  took  them  all  out.     And  on  a  Sat- 


82  THE  GLORY-BOX 

urday  afternoon  three  weeks  later  she  startled  her  mother 
by  coming  into  her  room  dressed  in  the  suit  and  hat  that 
were  her  'best.'  Her  mother  laid  down  the  skirt  on  which 
she  was  putting  a  new  braid. 

'Why,  where  are  you  going,  Eunice?' 

*  I  thought  I'd  call  on  Mabel.  I've  never  been  to  see  her 
since  she  started  housekeeping.  I  promised  to,  long  ago.' 

Mrs.  Day  looked  at  her  keenly,  her  mouth  tightening. 
'You're  foolish  to  go  and  see  all  her  wedding  presents  about 
the  house.  You  won't  be  able  to  stand  it.' 

'I  shall,  mother.  That's  why  I'm  going  to  stand  it.  I 
shan't  mind  calling  there  after  I've  been  this  once.  I've 
thought  it  out.' 

'You're  a  queer  girl,  Eunice.  I  do  n't  understand  you. 
But  I  suppose  you  know  your  —  your  own  business  best,' 
she  ended,  taking  up  her  work  again. 

Eunice  felt  quite  sure  that  she  did,  and  yet  there  were 
days  when  the  experiment  seemed  a  failure,  or  at  least  only 
just  begun :  days  when  she  would  read  in  a  paper  of  brilliant 
social  events  in  New  York,  in  Stephen's  New  York.  Ste 
phen  might  have  been  there  at  that  dinner,  his  eyes,  which 
looked  so  gravely  from  his  picture,  lighted  with  the  joy- 
fulness  of  the  occasion,  his  splendid  head  towering  above 
the  other  men  as  he  joined  in  the  toasts  —  Stephen  had 
told  her  they  always  made  toasts  at  these  dinners;  she  could 
hear  his  laugh,  his  hearty  boyish  laugh.  And  those  other 
days  in  early  spring,  when  a  hurdy-gurdy  would  play 
'Turkey  in  the  Straw,'  and  she  could  see  Stephen  pitching 
his  Law  Journals  about,  exulting  in  the  glorious  fact  that 
he  was  alive.  Oh,  how  she  longed  for  him,  wanted  him 
these  days  —  with  a  passionate  yearning  that  for  mo 
ments  maddened  her.  But  as  the  months  went  by  the 
times  of  overwhelming  wanting  came  less  and  less  fre 
quently.  'I  shall  soon  be  happy,'  Eunice  told  herself. 


THE  GLORY-BOX  83 

And  on  a  morning  of  June  loveliness,  a  morning  of  very 
blue  sky,  white  clouds,  and  butter-cups,  Eunice  knew  that 
she  was  happy. 

*  I'm  glad  to-day,  Stephen,  I'm  glad,  just  because  it's  all 
so  beautiful/ 

She  wondered  now  and  again  why,  since  she  herself  was 
so  surely  leaving  the  sorrow  behind  her,  her  mother  should 
still  droop  under  its  weight.  They  seldom  talked  about 
Stephen.  They  had  agreed  at  the  beginning  not  to  do 
that  often,  but  there  was  bitterness  in  her  mother's  face 
and  bitterness  on  occasion  in  her  words.  *  I've  got  used  to 
seeing  your  box  around,  but  don't  ever  ask  me  to  look 
inside.'  It  occurred  to  Eunice  that  perhaps  it  was  because 
to  her  mother  had  come  only  the  grief.  She  was  not  having 
Stephen  to  love. 

in 

One  afternoon  late  in  February,  Eunice  was  met  in  the 
hall  by  her  mother.  '  A  letter  came  for  you  this  morning. 
It's  from  New  York.'  She  stood  watching  her  as  Eunice 
opened  it  with  unsteady  fingers. 

Eunice  looked  up  in  a  few  moments,  very  white.  'It's 
from  Professor  Lansing's  sister,'  she  faltered.  'Miss  Lan 
sing  is  coming  on  to  Chicago  this  week.  She  says  she 
would  like  to  see  me.  She'll  stop  off  in  Dayton  over  night, 
Saturday  probably,  and  will  come  out  for  lunch  if  it's 
convenient  for  us  to  have  her.  She  can  make  connections 
by  doing  that.  Oh,  mother,  it's  beautiful  of  her  to  want 
to  come.' 

'  I  don't  know  that  it  will  do  you  much  good  to  see  her. 
You'll  probably  get  upset.' 

'No,  I  won't  be  upset  because  I'll  be  so  glad.  Stephen 
said  she  was  a  wonderful  woman,  and  —  we  can  talk  about 


84  THE  GLORY-BOX 

him.  He  was  at  her  house  only  a  few  days  before  he  — 
caught  cold.' 

*  Well,  I  don't  know,'  said  her  mother.  *  You  had  better 
come  into  the  kitchen  where  it's  warm.  You  look  like  a 
ghost,  Eunice.  I'll  give  you  a  cup  of  soup  to  drink.  It's 
on  the  stove  now.'  She  laid  nervous  compelling  fingers 
on  Eunice's  arm.  'I  suppose,'  Mrs.  Day  was  pouring  out 
the  soup  as  she  spoke, '  I  suppose  that  Miss  Lansing  has  n't 
any  idea  of  the  way  we  live.  Even  the  front  stoop  looks 
a  sight.  It's  needed  a  coat  of  paint  for  years.' 

'I  know,'  Eunice  answered,  her  face  clouding.  *I  wish 
things  were  different  for  Stephen's  sake.  But  we  can't 
help  it.' 

'No,'  said  her  mother  harshly,  'we  can't  help  it.  But  I 
wish  she  was  n't  coming  for  a  meal.  The  last  decent 
tablecloth  was  cut  up  into  napkins  a  month  ago.  I  was 
ashamed  of  the  one  we  set  Mabel  Bennet  down  to  the  other 
night.' 

Eunice  walked  to  the  window.  She  looked  out  upon  the 
backyard,  upon  the  snow  that  was  reflecting  the  sunset,  a 
sentence  of  one  of  Stephen's  letters  in  her  mind.  'It's  the 
dignity  of  their  living  that  makes  these  Washington  Square 
people  so  worth  while.'  And  then  she  recalled  that  other 
letter.  'It  will  be  jolly  to  have  nice  linen.  Good  linen 
makes  you  feel  respectable.' 

It  pained  her  that  they  must  offer  this  friend  of  Ste 
phen's  what  they  had  been  ashamed  to  offer  Mabel  Bennet. 
Stephen's  pride  would  be  hurt,  Stephen  who  had  loved 
that  word '  dignity' ;  and  Stephen's  pride  was  her  own  pride 
just  as  much  as  if  she  were  his  wife,  as  if  he  were  living. 

Eunice  stood  a  long  time  looking  out  upon  the  snow, 
until  the  rose  of  the  sunset  had  gone  from  it,  leaving  it 
blue  and  cold.  She  turned  from  the  window. 

'Mother,'  —  she  was  glad  that  in  the  darkening  kitchen 


THE  GLORY-BOX  85 

she  could  not  see  her  mother's  face  distinctly,  —  *  mother, 
don't  you  think  we  had  better  use  that  very  fine  cloth  you 
gave  me,  and  the  napkins,  to  make  the  table  look  nice? 
Hadn't  we  better  use  them?' 

'Use  your  things  out  of  your  Glory-Box,  Eunice!' 

*  Yes,  they  are  just  pretty  things,  now,  mother.     All  the 
pain  is  out  of  them.     I'm  going  to  wear  the  best  set  you 
made  me.     I  think  if  I  have  on  those  nice  clothes  under 
my  dress  I  won't  be  so  shy  with  Miss  Lansing.     I  want  — 
O,  mother,  I  want  Stephen  to  —  to  feel  proud  of  me.' 

Mrs.  Day  bent  to  rake  the  fire,  then  straightened  up. 
'If  you  can  stand  wearing  that  set,  I've  nothing  to  say. 
You  have  a  right  to  your  own  notions.  But  I  do  n't  see 
how  I  can  bear  to  look  at  the  cloth.' 

*  After  it's  been  done  up  and  on  the  table  once,  you'll 
forget  there  was  anything  sad  connected  with  it.     I  know 
you  will,'  said  Eunice,  with  her  brave,  pleading  eyes  fixed 
on  her  mother's  set  face. 

'I  do  n't  know;  maybe  I  could  forget.  But  I  do  n't  see 
how  I  could  bring  myself  to  use  something  out  of  your  own 
Glory-Box.  It  seems  almost  indelicate.  They're  all  your 
things.' 

Eunice  crossed  the  room  and  laid  her  face  down  on  her 
mother's  shoulder.  '  You  gave  me  the  things,  mother,  and 
you've  had  so  little  of  what  you've  always  wanted.  Can't 
it  be  our  Glory-Box,  for  us  both  to  use  on  special  occasions 
— like  this?'  Her  arms  tightened  about  her  mother's 
neck.  'Can't  we  use  them  this  time  for  Stephen's  sake?' 

After  a  moment's  silence  Mrs.  Day  pushed  her  gently 
away. 

'If  they  are  to  be  washed  you'll  have  to  bring  them 
down  to-morrow.  I'll  want  to  get  them  on  the  line  while 
this  good  weather  lasts.  Saturday  is  only  four  days  off.' 

Saturday  evening  Eunice  lighted  the  candles  on  her 


86  THE  GLORY-BOX 

bureau;  lighting  the  candles  seemed  like  another  ceremony 
of  this  perfect  day.  She  had  got  up  early  so  as  to  put  her 
room  and  the  rest  of  the  house  in  order.  While  her  mother 
was  finishing  in  the  kitchen  she  had  set  the  table.  It  had 
been  a  joy  to  do  that,  to  spread  the  cloth  so  that  the 
creases^would  come  in  just  the  right  place,  and  the  large 
initial  'D'  show  without  being  too  conspicuous,  and  to 
fold  the  napkins  prettily  and  arrange  the  dishes.  At  the 
last  moment  she  had  decided  that  it  would  not  be  too 
extravagant  to  buy  a  little  plant  of  some  sort  for  a  centre 
piece.  So  there  was  just  time  for  her  to  slip  into  the 
clothes  that  had  been  spread  out  on  the  bed,  and  do  over 
her  hair,  before  Miss  Lansing  arrived. 

Stephen  had  said,  *  You  will  like  her,  Eunice. '  Like  her ! 
—  she  was  the  most  wonderful  woman  she  had  ever  met. 
She  was  elderly,  but  strangely  enough  you  did  not  wonder 
whether  she  had  been  pretty  or  beautiful  when  she  was 
young.  She  was  wonderful  just  as  she  was  now.  You 
could  not  think  of  her  as  being  different.  She  was  tall,  a 
little  taller  than  Eunice  herself.  Her  face  was  finely  cut, 
the  sort  of  face  you  saw  in  engravings  of  old  portraits'; 
there  were  not  many  lines  in  it.  Her  eyes  were  dark  and 
young  too,  though  she  had  quite  gray  hair  and  evidently 
did  n't  care  to  be  in  the  fashion,  for  her  black  silk  fell  all 
around  in  ample  lengths.  Eunice  had  watched  her  hands. 
They  were  not  small,  but  long  and  slender  and  very  white; 
the  two  rings  she  wore  seemed  made  for  them. 

And  Eunice  had  not  felt  shy.  At  first  she  had  thought 
she  was  going  to,  Miss  Lansing  had  seemed  at  first  so  like 
a  personage;  but  the  thought  of  Stephen,  and  of  the  feather- 
stitched  best  set  she  was  wearing  made  her  forget  that 
Washington  Square  was,  as  Stephen  had  said,  rather  terri 
fying  on  the  outside.  It  was  Stephen's  friend  whom  they 
were  entertaining,  and  Stephen's  friend  was  not  a  person- 


THE   GLORY-BOX  87 

age  really,  but  a  wonderful  woman  who  had  loved  Stephen 
too. 

After  lunch  they  talked  together  in  the  parlor  while  her 
mother  was  clearing  things  away.  Miss  Lansing  said  that 
she  had  seen  a  great  deal  of  Stephen  that  last  year.  He 
had  seemed  to  enjoy  coming  to  the  house.  He  had  come 
to  dinner  sometimes,  but  more  often  he  had  dropped  in  on 
Saturday  or  Sunday  afternoons  for  tea.  One  afternoon 
he  had  not  been  quite  himself.  She  had  questioned  him 
a  little  and  he  had  confessed  with  a  laugh  that  he  was 
homesick  for  Ohio. 

'That  was  the  time  he  talked  for  two  hours  about  you, 
my  dear,'  Miss  Lansing  said,  smiling.  *  Fortunately  no 
one  else  came  in,  so  he  was  uninterrupted.  I  liked  to  listen 
to  his  talk;  he  had  charm.'  But  Eunice  saw  her  eyes  kin 
dle.  'He  was  more  than  charming.  He  was  great.' 

'Yes,'  Eunice  answered  very  low.  'He  would  have 
been  a  great  man,  Miss  Lansing.  I  always  knew  he  would.' 

At  that  Miss  Lansing  put  out  both  hands  and  covered 
Eunice's  that  were  clasped  tightly  in  her  lap.  'He  would 
have  been  a  great  man,'  she  repeated,  '  and  you,  my  dear, 
would  have  made  him  a  great  wife.' 

Eunice  felt  that  never,  unless  she  should  hear  Stephen's 
voice  again,  should  she  listen  to  such  wonderful  words  as 
those.  Ever  since  Miss  Lansing  had  gone  they  had  sung 
themselves  in  her  heart  like  a  sacred  refrain.  She  was 
glad  that  it  was  night  now  so  that  she  could  fall  asleep 
repeating  them. 

'Getting  ready  for  bed,  Eunice?' 

'I'm  beginning  to.'  Eunice  opened  the  door  to  her 
mother,  who  stood  outside  winding  the  clock. 

'Do  you  know,'  said  Mrs.  Day  as  she  set  the  alarm, 'I've 
been  thinking  again  what  a  good  idea  it  was  to  open  that 
can  of  peas.  They  did  make  the  chops  looks  so  tasty, 


88  THE  GLORY-BOX 

and  they  were  almost  as  tender  as  the  French.     I  helped 
Miss  Lansing  twice.' 

Eunice  kissed  her  as  she  turned  away. 

'It  was  a  nice  dinner  throughout,  mother,  and  the  table 
looked  lovely/ 

'Well,  I  saw  Miss  Lansing  look  at  the  cloth.  She  was 
too  much  of  a  lady  to  say  anything,  of  course,  but  I  could 
tell  she  noticed  it.' 

'Yes,'  said  Eunice,  'I  think  she  did.' 

Mrs.  Day  was  closing  her  door. 

'Put  out  the  light  in  the  hall  before  you  go  to  bed, 
Eunice.' 

'Yes,  mother,'  said  Eunice,  softly  closing  her  own  door. 

She  stood  still  a  moment  in  the  centre  of  the  candle- 
lighted  room.  Then  she  went  over  to  the  Glory-Box  and 
took  out  the  kimono  and  laid  it  over  the  footboard  so  that 
the  pink  folds  could  catch  the  light.  When  she  had  un 
dressed,  she  put  it  on.  '  It  will  be  a  beautiful  ending  to  the 
day,'  she  said,  as  she  stood  before  the  mirror  braiding  her 
hair. 

Her  eyes  rested  on  Stephen's  picture. 

'I  think  you  would  have  been  proud  to-day,  dear,  and 
I  think  you  would  have  liked  this.' 

She  turned  to  the  mirror,  and  looked  at  the  girl  reflected 
there,  at  the  dark  eyes  and  hair  and  at  the  kimono  draping 
her  soft  white  gown. 

'Dawn  and  apple-blossoms,'  she  whispered  and  then 
stretched  out  her  arms. 

'Stephen,  my  dear!     O  Stephen.' 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  HERD* 

BY   DALLAS   LORE    SHARP 


WE  were  trailing  the  'riders '  of  P  Ranch  across  the  plains 
to  a  hollow  in  the  hills  called  the  'Troughs,'  where  they 
were  to  round  up  a  lot  of  cattle  for  a  branding.  On  the 
way  we  fell  in  behind  a  bunch  of  some  fifty  cows  and  year 
lings  which  one  of  the  riders  had  picked  up;  and,  while  he 
dashed  off  across  the  desert  for  a  'stray/  we  tenderfeet 
drove  on  the  herd.  It  was  hot,  and  the  cattle  lagged,  so 
we  urged  them  on.  All  at  once  I  noticed  that  the  whole 
herd  was  moving  with  a  swinging,  warping  gait,  with 
switching  tails,  and  heads  thrown  round  from  side  to  side 
as  if  every  steer  were  watching  us.  We  were  not  near 
enough  to  see  their  eyes,  but  the  rider,  far  across  the  desert, 
saw  the  movement  and  came  cutting  through  the  sage, 
shouting  and  waving  his  arms  to  stop  us.  We  had  pushed 
the  driving  too  hard.  Mutiny  was  spreading  among  the 
cattle,  already  manifest  in  a  sullen  ugly  temper  that  would 
have  brought  the  herd  charging  us  in  another  minute,  had 
not  the  cowboy  galloped  in  between  us  just  as  he  did  —  so 
untamed,  unafraid,  and  instinctively  savage  is  the  spirit 
of  the  herd. 

It  is  this  herd-spirit  that  the  cowboy,  on  his  long,  cross- 
desert  drives  to  the  railroad,  most  fears.  The  herd  is  like 
a  crowd,  easily  led,  easily  excited,  easily  stampeded,  — 
when  it  becomes  a  mob  of  frenzied  beasts,  past  all  control, 
—  the  spirit  of  the  city  'gang'  at  riot  in  the  plains. 

*  Published  also  in  Professor  Sharp's  book,  Where  Rolls  the  Oregon, 
and  here  reprinted  through  the  courtesy  of  Houghton  Mifflin  Company. 


90  THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  HERD 

If  one  would  know  how  thin  is  the  coat  of  domestication 
worn  by  the  tamest  of  animals,  let  him  ride  with  the  cattle 
across  the  rim-rock  country  of  southeastern  Oregon.  No 
better  chance  to  study  the  spirit  of  the  herd  could  possibly 
be  had.  And  in  contrast  to  the  cattle,  how  intelligent, 
controlled,  almost  human,  seems  the  plainsman's  horse ! 

I  share  all  the  tenderfoot's  admiration  for  the  cowboy 
and  his  'pony.' 

Both  of  them  are  necessary  in  bringing  four  thousand 
cattle  through  from  P  Ranch  to  Winnemucca;  and  of  both 
is  required  a  degree  of  daring  and  endurance,  as  well  as  a 
knowledge  of  the  wild-animal  mind,  which  lifts  their  hard 
work  into  the  heroic,  and  makes  of  every  drive  a  sage-brush 
epic  —  so  wonderful  is  the  working  together  of  man  and 
horse,  a  kind  of  centaur  of  the  plains. 

From  P  Ranch  to  Winnemucca  is  a  seventeen-day  drive 
through  a  desert  of  rim-rock  and  greasewood  and  sage, 
which,  under  the  most  favorable  conditions,  is  beset  with 
difficulty,  but  which,  in  the  dry  season,  and  with  anything 
like  four  thousand  cattle,  becomes  an  unbroken  hazard. 
More  than  all  else  on  such  a  drive  is  feared  the  wild  herd- 
spirit,  the  quick,  black  temper  which,  by  one  sign  or  an 
other,  ever  threatens  to  break  the  spell  of  the  riders'  power 
and  sweep  the  maddened  or  terrorized  herd  to  destruction. 
The  handling  of  the  herd  to  keep  this  spirit  sleeping  is  oft- 
times  a  thrilling  experience. 


II 

Some  time  before  my  visit  to  P  Ranch,  in  the  summer 
of  1912,  the  riders  had  taken  out  a  herd  of  four  thousand 
steers  on  what  proved  to  be  one  of  the  most  difficult  drives 
ever  made  to  Winnemucca.  For  the  first  two  days  on  the 
trail  the  cattle  were  strange  to  each  other,  having  been 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  HERD  91 

gathered  from  widely  separated  grazing  grounds,  —  from 
Double-O  and  the  Home  Ranch,  —  and  were  somewhat 
clannish  and  restive  under  the  driving.  At  the  beginning 
of  the  third  day  signs  of  real  trouble  appeared.  A  shortage 
of  water  and  the  hot  weather  together  began  to  tell  on  the 
temper  of  the  herd. 

The  third  day  was  long  and  exceedingly  hot.  The  line 
started  forward  at  dawn,  and  all  day  kept  moving,  with 
the  sun  cooking  the  bitter  smell  of  the  sage  into  the  air,  and 
with  sixteen  thousand  hoofs  kicking  up  a  still  bitterer 
smother  of  alkali  dust  which  inflamed  eyes  and  nostrils 
and  coated  the  very  lungs  of  the  cattle.  The  fierce  desert 
thirst  was  upon  the  herd  long  before  it  reached  the  creek 
where  it  was  to  bed  for  the  night.  The  heat  and  the  dust 
had  made  slow  work  of  the  driving,  and  it  was  already  late 
when  they  reached  the  creek,  only  to  find  it  dry. 

This  was  bad.  The  men  were  tired,  but  the  cattle  were 
thirsty,  and  Wade,  the  'boss  of  the  buckaroos/  pushed  the 
herd  on  toward  the  next  rim-rock,  hoping  to  get  down  to 
the  plain  below  before  the  end  of  the  slow  desert  twilight. 
Anything  for  the  night  but  a  dry  camp. 

They  had  hardly  started  on  when  a  whole  flank  of  the 
herd,  suddenly  breaking  away  as  if  by  prearrangement, 
tore  off  through  the  brush.  The  horses  were  as  tired  as  the 
men,  and,  before  the  chase  was  over,  the  twilight  was  gray 
in  the  sage,  making  it  necessary  to  halt  at  once  and  camp 
where  they  were.  They  would  have  to  go  without  water. 

The  runaways  were  brought  up  and  the  herd  closed  in 
till  it  formed  a  circle  nearly  a  mile  around.  This  was  as 
close  as  it  could  be  drawn,  for  the  cattle  would  not  bed 
—  lie  down.  They  wanted  water  more  than  they  wanted 
rest.  Their  eyes  were  red,  their  tongues  raspy  with  thirst. 
The  situation  was  a  difficult  one. 

But  camp  was  made.     Two  of  the  riders  were  sent  back 


92  THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  HERD 

along  the  trail  to  bring  up  the  'drags/  while  Wade,  with  his 
other  men,  circled  the  uneasy  cattle,  closing  them  in,  quiet 
ing  them,  and  doing  everything  possible  to  make  them  bed. 

They  were  thirsty;  and  instead  of  bedding,  the  herd  be 
gan  to  *  growl'  —  a  distant  mutter  of  throats,  low,  rum 
bling,  ominous,  as  when  faint  thunder  rolls  behind  the  hills. 
Every  plainsman  fears  the  growl,  for  it  too  often  is  a 
prelude  to  the  *  milling,'  as  it  proved  to  be  now,  when  the 
whole  vast  herd  began  to  stir  —  slowly,  singly  at  first  and 
without  direction,  till  at  length  it  moved  together,  round 
and  round  a  great  compact  circle,  the  multitude  of  clicking 
hoofs,  of  clashing  horns  and  chafing  sides,  like  the  sound  of 
rushing  rain  across  a  field  of  corn. 

Nothing  could  be  worse  for  the  cattle.  The  cooler  twi 
light  was  falling,  but,  mingling  with  it,  rose  and  thickened 
and  spread  a  choking  dust  from  their  feet  which  soon  cov 
ered  them,  and  shut  from  sight  all  but  the  wall  of  the  herd. 
Slowly,  evenly,  swung  the  wall,  round  and  round,  without 
a  break.  Only  one  who  has  watched  a  milling  herd  can 
know  its  suppressed  excitement.  To  keep  that  excitement 
in  check  was  the  problem  of  Wade  and  his  men.  And  the 
night  had  not  yet  begun. 

When  the  riders  had  brought  in  the  drags,  and  the  chuck- 
wagon  had  lumbered  up  with  supper,  Wade  set  the  first 
watch. 

Along  with  the  wagon  had  come  the  fresh  horses  — 
among  them  Peroxide  Jim,  a  supple,  powerful,  clean 
limbed  buckskin,  that  had,  I  think,  as  fine  and  intelligent 
an  animal-face  as  any  creature  I  ever  saw.  And  why 
should  he  not  have  been  saved  fresh  for  just  such  a  need 
as  this?  Are  there  not  superior  horses  as  well  as  superior 
men  —  a  Peroxide  Jim  to  complement  a  Wade? 

The  horse  plainly  understood  the  situation,  Wade  told 
me;  and  though  there  was  nothing  like  sentiment  for  horse- 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  HERD  93 

flesh  about  the  boss  of  the  P  Ranch  riders,  his  faith  in  Per 
oxide  Jim  was  absolute. 

The  other  night-horses  were  saddled  and  tied  to  the 
wheels  of  the  wagon.  It  was  Wade's  custom  to  take  his 
turn  with  the  second  watch;  but  shifting  his  saddle  to  Per 
oxide  Jim,  he  rode  out  with  the  four  of  the  first  watch,  who, 
evenly  spaced,  were  quietly  circling  the  herd. 

The  night,  for  this  part  of  the  high  desert,  was  unusually 
warm.  It  was  close,  still,  and  without  a  sky.  The  near, 
thick  darkness  blotted  out  the  stars.  There  is  usually  a 
breeze  at  night  over  these  highest  rim-rock  plains  which, 
no  matter  how  hot  the  day  may  have  been,  crowds  the 
cattle  together  for  warmth.  To-night  not  a  breath  stirred 
the  sage  as  Wade  wound  in  and  out  among  the  bushes,  the 
hot  dust  stinging  his  eyes  and  caking  rough  on  his  skin. 

Round  and  round  moved  the  weaving  shifting  forms, 
out  of  the  dark  and  into  the  dark,  a  gray  spectral  line  like 
a  procession  of  ghosts,  or  some  morris  dance  of  the  desert's 
sheeted  dead.  But  it  was  not  a  line,  it  was  a  sea  of  forms; 
not  a  procession,  but  the  even  surging  of  a  maelstrom  of 
hoofs  a  mile  around. 

Wade  galloped  out  on  the  plain  for  a  breath  of  air  and  a 
look  at  the  sky.  A  quick  cold  rain  would  quiet  them;  but 
there  was  not  a  feel  of  rain  in  the  darkness,  no  smell  of  it  on 
the  air.  Only  the  powdery  taste  of  the  bitter  sage. 

The  desert,  where  the  herd  was  camped,  was  one  of  the 
highest  of  a  series  of  table-lands,  or  benches;  it  lay  as  level 
as  a  floor,  rimmed  by  a  sheer  wall  of  rock  from  which  there 
was  a  drop  to  the  bench  of  sage  below.  The  herd  had  been 
headed  for  a  pass,  and  was  now  halted  within  a  mile  of  the 
rim-rock  on  the  east,  where  there  was  a  perpendicular  fall 
of  about  three  hundred  feet. 

It  was  the  last  place  an  experienced  plainsman  would 
have  chosen  for  a  camp ;  and  every  time  Wade  circled  the 


94  THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  HERD 

herd,  and  came  in  between  the  cattle  and  the  rim,  he  felt 
the  nearness  of  the  precipice.  The  darkness  helped  to 
bring  it  near.  The  height  of  his  horse  brought  it  near  — 
he  seemed  to  look  down  from  his  saddle  over  it,  into  its 
dark  depths.  The  herd  in  its  milling  was  surely  warping 
slowly  in  the  direction  of  the  rim.  But  this  was  all  fancy, 
the  trick  of  the  dark  and  of  nerves  —  if  a  plainsman  has 
nerves. 

At  twelve  o'clock  the  first  guard  came  in  and  woke  the 
second  watch.  Wade  had  been  in  the  saddle  since  dawn, 
but  this  was  his  regular  watch.  More  than  that,  his 
trained  ear  had  timed  the  milling  hoofs.  The  movement 
of  the  herd  had  quickened. 

If  now  he  could  keep  them  going,  and  could  prevent 
their  taking  any  sudden  fright !  They  must  not  stop  until 
they  stopped  from  utter  weariness.  Safety  lay  in  their 
continued  motion.  So  the  fresh  riders  flanked  them 
closely,  paced  them,  and  urged  them  quietly  on.  They 
must  be  kept  milling  and  they  must  be  kept  from  fright. 
In  the  taut  silence  of  the  stirless  desert  night,  with  the 
tension  of  the  herd  at  the  snapping-point,  any  quick,  un 
wonted  sight  or  sound  would  stampede  them ;  the  sneezing 
of  a  horse,  the  flare  of  a  match,  would  be  enough  to  send 
the  whole  four  thousand  headlong— blind,  frenzied,  tramp 
ling  —  till  spent  and  scattered  over  the  plain. 

And  so,  as  he  rode,  Wade  began  to  sing.  The  rider 
ahead  of  him  took  up  the  air  and  passed  it  on  until,  above 
the  stepping  stir  of  the  hoofs,  rose  the  faint  voices  of  the 
men,  and  all  the  herd  was  bound  about  by  the  slow  plain 
tive  measures  of  some  old  song.  It  was  not  to  soothe 
their  savage  breasts  that  the  riders  sang  to  the  cattle,  but 
to  prevent  the  shock  of  their  hearing  any  loud  and  sudden 
noise. 

So  they  sang  and  rode  and  the  night  wore  on  to  one 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  HERD  95 

o'clock,  when  Wade,  coming  up  on  the  rim-rock  side,  felt  a 
cool  breeze  fan  his  face,  and  caught  a  breath  of  fresh,  moist 
wind  with  the  taste  of  water  in  it. 

He  checked  his  horse  instantly,  listening  as  the  wind 
swept  past  him  over  the  cattle.  But  they  must  already 
have  smelled  it,  for  they  had  ceased  their  milling.  The 
whole  herd  stood  motionless,  the  indistinct  forms  close  to 
him  in  the  dark,  showing  their  bald  faces  lifted  to  drink 
the  sweet  wet  breath  that  came  over  the  rim.  Then  they 
started  again,  but  faster,  and  with  a  rumbling  from  their 
hoarse  throats  that  tightened  Wade's  grip  on  the  reins. 

The  sound  seemed  to  come  out  of  the  earth,  a  low,  rum 
bling  mumble,  as  dark  as  the  night  and  as  wide  as  the  plain, 
a  thick  inarticulate  bellow  that  stood  every  rider  stiff  in  his 
stirrups. 

The  breeze  caught  the  dust  and  carried  it  back  from  the 
gray-coated,  ghostly  shapes,  and  Wade  saw  that  the  ani 
mals  were  still  moving  in  a  circle.  If  he  could  keep  them 
going !  He  touched  his  horse  to  ride  on  with  them,  when 
across  the  black  sky  flashed  a  vivid  streak  of  lightning. 

There  was  a  snort  from  the  steers,  a  quick  clap  of  horns 
and  hoofs  from  far  within  the  herd,  a  tremor  of  the  plain, 
a  roar,  a  surging  mass  —  and  Wade  wTas  riding  the  flank  of 
a  wild  stampede.  Before  him,  behind  him,  beside  him, 
pressing  hard  upon  his  horse,  galloped  the  frenzied  steers, 
and  beyond  them  a  multitude,  borne  on,  and  bearing  him 
on,  by  the  heave  of  the  galloping  herd. 

Wade  was  riding  for  his  life.  He  knew  it.  His  horse 
knew  it.  He  was  riding  to  turn  the  herd,  too,  back  from 
the  rim,  as  the  horse  also  knew.  The  cattle  were  after 
water  —  water-mad  — -  ready  to  go  over  the  precipice  to 
get  it,  carrying  horse  and  rider  with  them.  Wade  was  the 
only  rider  between  the  herd  and  the  rim.  It  was  black  as 
death.  He  could  see  nothing  in  the  sage,  could  scarcely 


96  THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  HERD 

discern  the  pounding,  panting  shadows  at  his  side;  but  he 
knew  by  the  swish  of  the  brush  and  the  plunging  of  the 
horse  that  the  ground  was  growing  stonier,  that  they  were 
nearing  the  rocks. 

To  outrun  the  stampede  was  his  only  chance.  If  he 
could  come  up  with  the  leaders  he  might  yet  head  them  off 
upon  the  plain  and  save  the  herd.  There  were  cattle  still 
ahead  of  him ;  how  many,  what  part  of  the  herd,  he  could 
not  tell.  But  the  horse  knew.  The  reins  hung  on  his 
straight  neck,  while  Wade,  yelling  and  firing  into  the  air, 
gave  him  the  race  to  win,  to  lose. 

Suddenly  they  veered  and  went  high  in  the  air,  as  a  steer 
plunged  headlong  into  a  draw  almost  beneath  their  feet. 
They  cleared  the  narrow  ravine,  landed  on  bare  rock  and 
reeled  on. 

They  were  riding  the  rim.  Close  to  their  left  bore  down 
the  flank  of  the  herd,  and  on  their  right,  under  their  very 
feet,  was  a  precipice,  so  close  that  they  felt  its  blackness  — 
its  three  hundred  feet  of  fall ! 

A  piercing,  half-human  bawl  of  terror  told  where  a  steer 
had  been  crowded  over.  Would  the  next  leap  carry  them 
after  him?  Then  Wade  found  himself  racing  neck  and 
neck  with  a  big  white  steer,  which  the  horse,  with  mar 
velous  instinct,  seemed  to  pick  from  a  bunch,  and  to  cling 
to,  forcing  him  gradually  ahead  till,  cutting  him  free  from 
the  bunch  entirely,  he  bore  him  off  into  the  sage. 

The  group  coming  on  behind  followed  its  leader,  and  in, 
after  them,  swung  others.  The  tide  was  turning.  Within 
a  short  time  the  whole  herd  had  veered,  and,  bearing  off 
from  the  cliffs,  was  pounding  over  the  open  plains. 

Whose  race  was  it?  Peroxide  Jim's,  according  to  Wade, 
for  not  by  word  or  by  touch  of  hand  or  knee  had  he  been 
directed  in  the  run.  From  the  flash  of  the  lightning  the 
horse  had  taken  the  bit,  and  covered  an  indescribably 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  HERD  97 

perilous  path  at  top  speed,  had  outrun  the  herd  and  turned 
it  from  the  edge  of  the  rim-rock,  without  a  false  step  or  a 
tremor. 

Bred  on  the  desert,  broken  at  the  round-up,  trained  to 
think  steer  as  his  rider  thinks  it,  the  horse  knew  as  swiftly, 
as  clearly  as  his  rider,  the  work  before  him.  But  that  he 
kept  himself  from  fright,  that  none  of  the  wild  herd-mad 
ness  passed  into  him,  is  a  thing  for  wonder.  He  was  as 
thirsty  as  any  animal  of  the  herd;  he  knew  his  own  peril, 
I  believe,  as  none  of  the  herd  had  ever  known  anything; 
and  yet,  such  coolness,  courage,  wisdom,  and  power! 

Was  it  training?  Was  it  more  intimate  association 
with  the  man  on  his  back,  and  so,  a  further  remove  from 
the  wild  thing  which  domestication  does  not  seem  to  touch? 
Or  was  it  all  suggestion,  the  superior  intelligence  above 
riding  —  not  the  flesh,  but  the  spirit? 


IN  THE  PASHA'S  GARDEN 

A  STAMBOUL  NIGHT'S  ENTERTAINMENT 

BY   H.    G.    D WIGHT 


As  the  cai'que  glided  up  to  the  garden  gate  the  three 
boatmen  rose  from  their  sheepskins  and  caught  hold  of  iron 
clamps  set  into  the  marble  of  the  quay.  Shaban,  the 
grizzled  gatekeeper,  who  was  standing  at  the  top  of  the 
water-steps  with  his  hands  folded  respectfully  in  front  of 
him,  came  salaaming  down  to  help  his  master  out. 

'Shall  we  wait,  my  Pasha? '  asked  the  head  kaikji. 

The  Pasha  turned  to  Shaban,  as  if  to  put  a  question. 
And  as  if  to  answer  it,  Shaban  said,  — 

'The  madama  is  up  in  the  wood,  in  the  kiosque.  She 
sent  down  word  to  ask  if  you  would  go  up  too/ 

'Then  don't  wait.'  Returning  the  boatmen's  salaam,  the 
Pasha  stepped  into  his  garden.  '  Is  there  company  in  the 
kiosque  or  is  madama  alone?'  he  inquired. 

'I  think  no  one  is  there  —  except  Ziimbiil  Agha,'  replied 
Shaban,  following  his  master  up  the  long  central  path  of 
black  and  white  pebbles. 

'Ziimbiil  Agha!'  exclaimed  the  Pasha.  But  if  it  had 
been  in  his  mind  to  say  anything  else  he  stopped  instead  to 
sniff  at  a  rosebud.  And  then  he  asked,  'Are  we  dining  up 
there,  do  you  know? ' 

'I  don't  know,  my  Pasha,  but  I  will  find  out.' 

'Tell  them  to  send  up  dinner  anyway,  Shaban.  It  is 
such  an  evening!  And  just  ask  Mustafa  to  bring  me  a 
coffee  at  the  fountain,  will  you?  I  will  rest  a  little  before 
climbing  that  hill.' 


IN  THE  PASHA'S  GARDEN  99 

'On  my  head!'  said  the  Albanian,  turning  off  to  the 
house. 

The  Pasha  kept  on  to  the  end  of  the  walk.  Two  big 
horse-chestnut  trees,  their  candles  just  starting  alight  in  the 
April  air,  stood  there  at  the  foot  of  a  terrace,  guarding  a 
fountain  that  dripped  in  the  ivied  wall.  A  thread  of  water 
started  mysteriously  out  of  the  top  of  a  tall  marble  niche 
into  a  little  marble  basin,  from  which  it  overflowed  by  two 
flat  bronze  spouts  into  two  smaller  basins  below.  From 
them  the  water  dripped  back  into  a  single  basin  still  lower 
down,  and  so  tinkled  its  broken  way,  past  graceful  ara 
besques  and  reliefs  of  fruit  and  flowers,  into  a  crescent- 
shaped  pool  at  the  foot  of  the  niche. 

The  Pasha  sank  down  into  one  of  the  wicker  chairs  scat 
tered  hospitably  beneath  the  horse-chestnut  trees,  and 
thought  how  happy  a  man  he  was  to  have  a  fountain  of  the 
period  of  Sultan  Ahmed  III,  and  a  garden  so  full  of  April 
freshness,  and  a  view  of  the  bright  Bosphorus  and  the  op 
posite  hills  of  Europe  and  the  firing  West.  How  definitely 
he  thought  it,  I  cannot  say,  for  the  Pasha  was  not  greatly 
given  to  thought.  Why  should  he  be,  as  he  possessed  with 
out  that  trouble  a  goodly  share  of  what  men  acquire  by 
taking  thought?  If  he  had  been  lapped  in  ease  and  se 
curity  all  his  days,  they  numbered  many  more,  did  those 
days,  than  the  Pasha  would  have  chosen.  Still,  they  had 
touched  him  but  lightly,  merely  increasing  the  dignity  of 
his  handsome  presence  and  taking  away  nothing  of  his 
power  to  enjoy  his  little  walled  world. 

So  he  sat  there,  breathing  in  the  air  of  the  place  and  the 
hour,  while  gardeners  came  and  went  with  their  watering- 
pots,  and  birds  twittered  among  the  branches,  and  the 
fountain  plashed  beside  him,  until  Shaban  reappeared 
carrying  a  glass  of  water  and  a  cup  of  coffee  in  a  swinging 
tray. 


100  IN  THE  PASHA'S  GARDEN 

'Eh,  Shaban!  It  is  not  your  business  to  carry  coffee!' 
protested  the  Pasha,  reaching  for  a  stand  that  stood  near 
him. 

'  What  is  your  business  is  my  business,  my  Pasha.  Have 
I  not  eaten  your  bread  and  your  father's  for  thirty  years?' 

*  No !     Is  it  as  long  as  that?    We  are  getting  old,  Shaban.' 

'We  are  getting  old,'  assented  the  Albanian  simply. 

The  Pasha  thought,  as  he  took  out  his  silver  cigarette- 
case,  of  another  pasha  who  had  complimented  him  that 
afternoon  on  his  youthfulness.  And,  choosing  a  cigarette, 
he  handed  the  case  to  his  gatekeeper.  Shaban  accepted  the 
cigarette  and  produced  matches  from  his  gay  girdle. 

'How  long  is  it  since  you  have  been  to  your  country, 
Shaban?' 

The  Pasha,  lifting  his  little  cup  by  its  silver  zarf,  real 
ized  that  he  would  not  sip  his  coffee  quite  so  noisily 
had  his  French  wife  been  sitting  with  him  under  the  horse- 
chestnuts.  But  with  his  old  Shaban  he  could  still  be  a  Turk. 

'Eighteen  months,  my  Pasha.' 

'And  when  are  you  going  again? ' 

'It  is  not  apparent.  Perhaps  in  Ramazan,  if  God  wills. 
Or  perhaps  next  Ramazan.  We  shall  see.' 

'Allah  Allah!  How  many  times  have  I  told  you  to 
bring  your  people  here,  Shaban?  We  have  plenty  of  room 
to  build  you  a  house  somewhere,  and  you  could  see  your 
wife  and  children  every  day  instead  of  once  in  two  or  three 
years.' 

'  Wives,  wives — a  man  will  not  die  if  he  does  not  see  them 
every  day !  Besides,  it  would  not  be  good  for  the  children. 
In  Constantinople  they  become  rascals.  There  are  too 
many  Christians.'  And  he  added  hastily,  'It  is  better  for  a 
boy  to  grow  up  in  the  mountains.' 

'But  we  have  a  mountain  here,  behind  the  house,' 
laughed  the  Pasha. 


IN  THE  PASHA'S  GAfrtiEN  101 

'Your  mountain  is  not  like  our  mountains/  objected 
Shaban  gravely,  hunting  in  his  mind  for  the  difference  he 
felt  but  could  not  express. 

'And  that  new  wife  of  yours/  went  on  the  Pasha.  'Is 
it  good  to  leave  a  young  woman  like  that?  Are  you  not 
afraid  ? ' 

'No,  my  Pasha.  I  am  not  afraid.  We  all  live  together, 
you  know.  My  brothers  watch,  and  the  other  women. 
She  is  safer  than  yours.  Besides,  in  my  country  it  is  not  as 
it  is  here/ 

'  I  don't  know  why  I  have  never  been  to  see  this  wonder 
ful  country  of  yours,  Shaban.  I  have  so  long  intended  to, 
and  I  never  have  been.  But  I  must  climb  my  mountain  or 
they  will  think  that  I  have  become  a  rascal  too/  And, 
rising  from  his  chair,  he  gave  the  Albanian  a  friendly  pat. 

'Shall  I  come  too,  my  Pasha?     Zumbul  Agha  sent  word 

> 

'Zumbul  Agha! '  interrupted  the  Pasha  irritably.  'No, 
you  needn't  come.  I  will  explain  to  Zumbiil  Agha/ 

With  which  he  left  Shaban  to  pick  up  the  empty  coffee 
cup. 

ii 

From  the  upper  terrace  a  bridge  led  across  the  public 
road  to  the  wood.  If  it  was  not  a  wood  it  was  at  all  events 
a  good-sized  grove,  climbing  the  steep  hillside  very  much  as 
it  chose.  Every  sort  and  size  of  tree  was  there,  but  the 
greater  number  of  them  were  of  a  kind  to  be  sparsely 
trimmed  in  April  with  a  delicate  green,  and  among  them 
were  so  many  twisted  Judas  trees  as  to  tinge  whole  patches 
of  the  slope  with  their  deep  rose  bloom.  The  road  which 
the  Pasha  slowly  climbed,  swinging  his  amber  beads  behind 
him  as  he  walked,  zigzagged  so  leisurely  back  and  forth 
among  the  trees  that  a  carriage  could  have  driven  up  it. 


102  i  IN  .T^E  J^ASHA'S  GARDEN 

In  that  way,  indeed,  the  Pasha  had  more  than  once 
mounted  to  the  kiosque,  in  the  days  when  his  mother  used 
to  spend  a  good  part  of  her  summer  up  there,  and  when  he 
was  married  to  his  first  wife.  The  memory  of  the  two, 
and  of  their  old-fashioned  ways,  entered  not  too  bitterly 
into  his  general  feeling  of  well-being,  ministered  to  by  the 
budding  trees  and  the  spring  air  and  the  sunset  view. 
Every  now  and  then  an  enormous  plane  tree  invited  him 
to  stop  and  look  at  it,  or  a  semi-circle  of  cypresses. 

So  at  last  he  came  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  where  in  a  grassy 
clearing  a  small  house  looked  down  on  the  valley  of  the 
Bosphorus  through  a  row  of  great  stone  pines.  The  door 
of  the  kiosque  was  open,  but  his  wife  was  not  visible.  The 
Pasha  stopped  a  moment,  as  he  had  done  a  thousand  times 
before,  and  looked  back.  He  was  not  the  man  to  be  in 
sensible  to  what  he  saw  between  the  columnar  trunks  of  the 
pines,  where  European  hills  traced  a  dark  curve  against  the 
fading  sky,  and  where  the  sinuous  waterway  far  below  still 
reflected  a  last  glamour  of  the  day.  The  beauty  of  it,  and 
the  sharp  sweetness  of  the  April  air,  and  the  infinitesimal 
sounds  of  the  wood,  and  the  half-conscious  memories  in 
volved  with  it  all,  made  him  sigh.  He  turned  and  mounted 
the  steps  of  the  porch. 

The  kiosque  looked  very  dark  and  unfamiliar  as  the 
Pasha  entered  it.  He  wondered  what  had  become  of 
Helene  —  if  by  any  chance  he  had  passed  her  on  the  way. 
He  wanted  her.  She  was  the  expression  of  what  the  even 
ing  roused  in  him.  He  heard  nothing,  however,  but  the 
splash  of  water  from  a  half -invisible  fountain.  It  reminded 
him  for  an  instant,  of  the  other  fountain,  below,  and  of 
Shaban.  His  steps  resounded  hollowly  on  the  marble  pave 
ment  as  he  walked  into  the  dim  old  saloon,  shaped  like  a  T, 
with  the  cross  longer  than  the  leg.  It  was  still  light  enough 
for  him  to  make  out  the  glimmer  of  windows  on  three  sides 


IN  THE  PASHA'S  GARDEN  103 

and  the  square  of  the  fountain  in  the  centre,  but  the  painted 
domes  above  were  lost  in  shadow. 

The  spaces  on  either  side  of  the  bay  by  which  he  entered, 
completing  the  rectangle  of  the  kiosque,  were  filled  by  two 
little  rooms  opening  into  the  cross  of  the  T.  He  went  into 
the  left-hand  one,  where  Helene  usually  sat  —  because 
there  were  no  lattices.  The  room  was  empty.  The  place 
seemed  so  strange  and  still  in  the  twilight  that  a  sort  of 
apprehension  began  to  grow  in  him,  and  he  half  wished  he 
had  brought  up  Shaban.  He  turned  back  to  the  second, 
the  latticed  room — the  harem,  as  they  called  it.  Curiously 
enough  it  was  Helene  who  would  never  let  him  European- 
ize  it,  in  spite  of  the  lattices.  Every  now  and  then  he  dis 
covered  that  she  liked  some  Turkish  things  better  than  he 
did.  As  soon  as  he  opened  the  door  he  saw  her  sitting  on 
the  divan  opposite.  He  knew  her  profile  against  the 
checkered  pallor  of  the  lattice.  But  she  neither  moved  nor 
greeted  him.  It  was  Ziimbul  Agha  who  did  so,  startling 
him  by  suddenly  rising  beside  the  door  and  saying  in  his 
high  voice,  — 

'Pleasant  be  your  coming,  my  Pasha.' 

The  Pasha  had  forgotten  about  Ziimbul  Agha;  and  it 
seemed  strange  to  him  that  Helene  continued  to  sit  silent 
and  motionless  on  her  sofa. 

'  Good  evening, '  he  said  at  last.  *  You  are  sitting  very 
quietly  here  in  the  dark.  Are  there  no  lights  in  this  place? ' 

It  was  again  Ziimbul  Agha  who  spoke,  turning  one  ques 
tion  by  another :  — 

'Did  Shaban  come  with  you?' 

'No,'  replied  the  Pasha  shortly.  'He  said  he  had  had 
a  message,  but  I  told  him  not  to  come. ' 

'A-ah!'  ejaculated  the  eunuch  in  his  high  drawl.  'But 
it  does  not  matter  —  with  the  two  of  us. ' 

The  Pasha  grew  more  and  more  puzzled,  for  this  was  not 


104  IN  THE  PASHA'S  GARDEN 

the  scene  he  had  imagined  to  himself  as  he  came  up  through 
the  park  in  response  to  his  wife's  message.  Nor  did  he 
grow  less  puzzled  when  the  eunuch  turned  to  her  and  said 
in  another  tone,  — • 

'Now  will  you  give  me  that  key?' 

The  Frenchwoman  took  no  more  notice  of  this  question 
than  she  had  of  the  Pasha's  entrance. 

'What  do  you  mean,  Ziimbiil  Agha?'  demanded  the 
Pasha  sharply.  '  That  is  not  the  way  to  speak  to  your  mis 
tress/ 

'I  mean  this,  my  Pasha,'  retorted  the  eunuch:  'that 
some  one  is  hiding  in  this  chest  and  that  madama  keeps  the 
key/ 

That  was  what  the  Pasha  heard,  in  the  absurd  treble  of 
the  black  man,  in  the  darkening  room.  He  looked  down 
and  made  out,  beside  the  tall  figure  of  the  eunuch,  the 
chest  on  which  he  had  been  sitting.  Then  he  looked  across 
at  Helene,  who  still  sat  silent  in  front  of  the  lattice. 

'What  are  you  talking  about?'  he  asked  at  last,  more 
stupefied  than  anything  else.  'Who  is  it?  A  thief?  Has 
any  one —  ?'  He  left  the  vague  question  unformulated, 
even  in  his  mind. 

'Ah,  that  I  don't  know.  You  must  ask  madama. 
Probably  it  is  one  of  her  Christian  friends.  But  at  least 
if  it  were  a  woman  she  would  not  be  so  unwilling  to  unlock 
her  chest  for  us ! ' 

The  silence  that  followed,  while  the  Pasha  looked  dumbly 
at  the  chest,  and  at  Ziimbul  Agha,  and  at  his  wife,  was 
filled  for  him  with  a  stranger  confusion  of  feelings  than  he 
had  ever  experienced  before.  Nevertheless,  he  was  sur 
prisingly  cool,  he  found.  His  pulse  quickened  very  little. 
He  told  himself  that  it  wasn't  true  and  that  he  really  must 
get  rid  of  old  Ziimbiil  after  all,  if  he  went  on  making  such 
preposterous  gaffes  and  setting  them  all  by  the  ears.  How 


IN  THE  PASHA'S  GARDEN  105 

could  anything  so  baroque  happen  to  him,  the  Pasha,  who 
owed  what  he  was  to  the  honorable  fathers  and  who  had 
passed  his  life  honorably  and  peaceably  until  this  moment? 
Yet  he  had  had  an  impression,  walking  into  the  dark  old 
kiosque  and  finding  nobody  until  he  found  these  two  sitting 
here  in  this  extraordinary  way,  as  if  he  had  walked  out  of 
his  familiar  garden,  which  he  knew  like  his  hand,  into  a 
country  he  knew  nothing  about,  where  anything  might 
be  true.  And  he  wished,  he  almost  passionately  wished, 
that  Helene  would  say  something,  would  cry  out  against 
Zumbul  Agha,  would  lie  even,  rather  than  sit  there  so  still 
and  removed  and  different  from  other  women. 

Then  he  began  to  be  aware  that  if  it  were  true  —  if  !  — • 
he  ought  to  do  something.  He  ought  to  make  a  noise.  He 
ought  to  kill  somebody.  That  was  what  they  always  did. 
That  was  what  his  father  would  have  done  —  or  certainly 
his  grandfather.  But  he  also  told  himself  that  it  was  no 
longer  possible  for  him  to  do  what  his  father  and  grand 
father  had  done.  He  had  been  unlearning  their  ways  too 
long.  Besides,  he  was  too  old. 

A  sudden  sting  pierced  him  at  the  thought  of  how  old  he 
was,  and  how  young  Helene.  Even  if  he  lived  to  be 
seventy  or  eighty,  she  would  still  have  a  life  left  when  he 
died.  Yes,  it  was  as  Shaban  said.  They  were  getting  old. 
He  had  never  really  felt  the  humiliation  of  it  before.  And 
Shaban  had  said,  strangely,  something  else  —  that  his  own 
wife  was  safer  than  the  Pasha's.  Still  he  felt  an  odd 
compassion  for  Helene,  too  —  because  she  was  young,  and 
it  was  Judas-tree  time,  and  she  was  married  to  gray  hairs. 
And  although  he  was  a  pasha,  descended  from  great  pa 
shas,  and  she  was  only  a  little  French  girl  quelconque,  he 
felt  more  afraid  than  ever  of  making  a  fool  of  himself  before 
her  —  when  he  had  promised  her  that  she  should  be  as  free 
as  any  other  European  woman,  that  she  should  live  her 


106  IN  THE  PASHA'S  GARDEN 

life.  Besides,  what  had  the  black  man  to  do  with  their 
private  affairs? 

'Ziimbiil  Agha,'  he  suddenly  heard  himself  harshly  say 
ing,  *  is  this  your  house  or  mine  ?  I  have  told  you  a  hundred 
times  that  you  are  not  to  trouble  the  madama,  or  follow  her 
about,  or  so  much  as  guess  where  she  is  and  what  she  is 
doing.  I  have  kept  you  in  the  house  because  my  father 
brought  you  into  it;  but  if  I  ever  hear  of  your  speaking  to 
madama  again,  or  spying  on  her,  I  will  send  you  into  the 
street.  Do  you  hear?  Now  get  out ! ' 

'  Amany  my  Pasha!  I  beg  you!'  entreated  the  eunuch. 
There  was  something  ludicrous  in  his  voice,  coming  as  it 
did  from  his  height. 

The  Pasha  wondered  if  he  had  been  too  long  a  person  of 
importance  in  the  family  to  realize  the  change  in  his  posi 
tion,  or  whether  he  really  — 

All  of  a  sudden  a  checkering  of  lamplight  flickered 
through  the  dark  window,  touched  the  negro's  black  face 
for  a  moment,  traveled  up  the  wall.  Silence  fell  again  in 
the  little  room  —  a  silence  into  which  the  fountain  dropped 
its  silver  patter.  Then  steps  mounted  the  porch  and 
echoed  in  the  other  room,  which  lighted  in  turn,  and  a  man 
came  in  sight,  peering  this  way  and  that,  with  a  big  white 
accordeon  lantern  in  his  hand.  Behind  the  man  two  other 
servants  appeared,  carrying  on  their  heads  round  wooden 
trays  covered  by  figured  silks,  and  a  boy  tugging  a  huge 
basket.  When  they  discovered  the  three  in  the  little  room 
they  salaamed  respectfully. 

*  Where  shall  we  set  the  table? '  asked  the  man  with  the 
lantern. 

For  the  Pasha  the  lantern  seemed  to  make  the  world  more 
like  the  place  he  had  always  known.  He  turned  to  his  wife 
apologetically. 

*  I  told  them  to  send  dinner  up  here.    It  has  been  such  a 


IN  THE  PASHA'S  GARDEN  107 

long  time  since  we  came.  But  I  forgot  about  the  table. 
I  don't  believe  there  is  one  here.' 

'No,'  uttered  Helene  from  her  sofa,  sitting  with  her  head 
on  her  hand. 

It  was  the  first  word  she  had  spoken.  But,  little  as  it 
was,  it  reassured  him,  like  the  lantern. 

*  There  is  the  chest/  hazarded  Ziimbul  Agha. 

The  interruption  of  the  servants  had  for  the  moment 
distracted  them  all.  But  the  Pasha  now  turned  on  him  so 
vehemently  that  the  eunuch  salaamed  in  haste  and  went 
away. 

in 

*  Why  not? '  asked  Helene,  when  he  was  gone.    'We  can 
sit  on  cushions.' 

*  Why  not?'  echoed  the  Pasha.     Grateful  as  he  was  for 
the  interruption,  he  found  himself  wishing,  secretly,  that 
Helene  had  discouraged  his  idea  of  a  picnic  dinner.     And 
he  could  not  help  feeling  a  certain  constraint  as  he  gave  the 
necessary  orders  and  watched  the  servants  put  down  their 
paraphernalia  and  pull  the  chest  into  the  middle  of  the 
room.     There  was  something  unreal  and  stage-like  about 
the  scene,  in  the  uncertain  light  of  the  lantern.     Obviously 
the  chest  was  not  light.     It  was  an  old  cypress-wood  chest 
that  they  had  always  used  in  the  summer,  to  keep  furs  in, 
polished  a  bright  brown,  with  a  little  inlaid  pattern  of  dark 
brown  and  cream  color  running  around  the  edge  of  each 
surface,  and  a  more  complicated  design  ornamenting  the 
centre  of  the  cover.     He  vaguely  associated  his  mother 
with  it.     He  felt  a  distinct  relief  when  the  men  spread  the 
cloth.     He  felt  as  if  they  had  covered  up  more  things  than 
he  could  name.     And  when  they  produced  candlesticks  and 
candles,  and  set  them  on  the  improvised  table  and  in  the 


108  IN  THE  PASHA'S  GARDEN 

niches  beside  the  door,  he  seemed  to  come  back  again  into 
the  comfortable  light  of  common  sense. 

*  This  is  the  way  we  used  to  do  when  I  was  a  boy/  he  said 
with  a  smile,  when  he  and  Helene  established  themselves  on 
sofa  cushions  on  opposite  sides  of  the  chest .  *  Only  then  we 
had  little  tables  six  inches  high,  instead  of  big  ones  like 
this.' 

'It  is  rather  a  pity  that  we  have  spoiled  all  that,'  she 
said.  'Are  we  any  happier  for  perching  on  chairs  around 
great  scaffoldings  and  piling  the  scaffoldings  with  so  many 
kinds  of  porcelain  and  metal  ?  After  all,  they  knew  how  to 
live  —  the  people  who  were  capable  of  imagining  a  place 
like  this.  And  they  had  the  good  taste  not  to  fill  a  room 
with  things.  Your  grandfather,  was  it? ' 

He  had  had  a  dread  that  she  would  not  say  anything,  that 
she  would  remain  silent  and  impenetrable,  as  she  had  been 
before  Zumbiil  Agha,  as  if  the  chest  between  them  were  a 
barrier  that  nothing  could  surmount.  His  heart  lightened 
when  he  heard  her  speak.  Was  it  not  quite  her  natural 
voice? 

'It  was  my  great-grandfather,  the  Grand  Vizier.  They 
say  he  did  know  how  to  live  —  in  his  way.  He  built  the 
kiosque  for  a  beautiful  slave  of  his,  a  Greek,  whom  he  called 
Pomegranate.' 

'Madame  Pomegranate?  What  a  charming  name! 
And  that  is  why  her  cipher  is  everywhere.  See? '  She 
pointed  to  the  series  of  cupboards  and  niches  on  either 
side  of  the  door,  dimly  painted  with  pomegranate  blossoms, 
and  to  the  plaster  reliefs  around  the  hooded  fireplace,  and 
the  cluster  of  pomegranates  that  made  a  centre  to  the  gilt 
and  painted  lattice- work  of  the  ceiling.  'One  could  be 
very  happy  in  such  a  little  house.  It  has  an  air  —  of  be 
ing  meant  for  moments.  And  you  feel  as  if  they  had  some 
thing  to  do  with  the  wonderful  way  it  has  faded.'  She 


IN  THE  PASHA'S  GARDEN  109 

looked  as  if  she  had  meant  to  say  something  else,  which  she 
did  not.  But  after  a  moment  she  added,  'Will  you  ask 
them  to  turn  off  the  water  in  the  fountain?  It  is  a  little 
chilly,  now  that  the  sun  has  gone,  and  it  sounds  like  rain  — 
or  tears/ 

The  dinner  went,  on  the  whole,  not  so  badly.  There 
were  dishes  to  be  passed  back  and  forth.  There  were 
questions  to  be  asked  or  comments  to  be  made.  There 
were  the  servants  to  be  spoken  to.  Yet,  more  and  more, 
the  Pasha  could  not  help  wondering.  When  a  silence  fell, 
too,  he  could  not  help  listening.  And  least  of  all  could  he 
help  looking  at  Helene.  He  looked  at  her,  trying  not  to 
look  at  her,  with  an  intense  curiosity,  as  if  he  had  never 
seen  her  before,  asking  himself  if  there  were  anything  new 
in  her  face,  and  how  she  would  look  if  —  Would  she  be  like 
this? 

She  made  no  attempt  to  keep  up  a  flow  of  words,  as  if 
to  distract  his  attention.  She  was  not  soft  either;  she  was 
not  trying  to  seduce  him :  And  she  made  no  show  of  grat 
itude  toward  him  for  having  sent  Ziimblil  Agha  away. 
Neither  did  she  by  so  much  as  an  inflection  try  to  in 
sinuate  or  excuse  or  explain.  She  was  what  she  always 
was,  perfect  —  and  evidently  a  little  tired.  She  was  in 
deed  more  than  perfect,  she  was  prodigious,  when  he 
asked  her  once  what  she  was  thinking  about  and  she  said 
Pandora,  tapping  the  chest  between  them.  He  had  never 
heard  the  story  of  that  Greek  girl  and  her  box,  and  she  told 
him  gravely  about  all  the  calamities  that  came  out  of  it, 
and  the  one  gift  of  hope  that  remained  behind. 

'But  I  cannot  be  a  Turkish  woman  long!'  she  added  in- 
consequently  with  a  smile.  'My  legs  are  asleep.  I  really 
must  walk  about  a  little.' 

When  he  had  helped  her  to  her  feet  she  led  the  way  into 
the  other  room.  They  had  their  coffee  and  cigarettes 


110  IN  THE  PASHA'S  GARDEN 

there.  Helene  walked  slowly  up  and  down  the  length  of 
the  room,  stopping  every  now  and  then  to  look  into  the 
square  pool  of  the  fountain  and  to  pat  her  hair. 

The  Pasha  sat  down  on  the  long  low  divan  that  ran  under 
the  windows.  He  could  watch  her  more  easily  now.  And 
the  detachment  with  which  he  had  begun  to  look  at  her 
grew  in  spite  of  him  into  the  feeling  that  he  was  looking  at  a 
stranger.  After  all,  what  did  he  know  about  her?  Who 
was  she?  What  had  happened  to  her,  during  all  the  years 
that  he  had  not  known  her,  in  that  strange  free  European 
life  which  he  had  tried  to  imitate,  and  which  at  heart  he 
secretly  distrusted?  What  had  she  ever  really  told  him, 
and  what  had  he  ever  really  divined  of  her?  For  perhaps 
the  first  time  in  his  life  he  realized  how  little  one  person 
may  know  of  another,  particularly  a  man  of  a  woman. 
And  he  remembered  Shaban  again,  and  that  phrase  about 
his  wife  being  safer  than  Helene.  Had  Shaban  really 
meant  anything?  Was  Helene  'safe'  ?  He  acknowledged 
to  himself  at  last  that  the  question  was  there  in  his  mind, 
waiting  to  be  answered. 

Helene  did  not  help  him.  She  had  been  standing  for  some 
time  at  an  odd  angle  to  the  pool,  looking  into  it.  He  could 
see  her  face  there,  with  the  eyes  turned  away  from  him. 

*  How  mysterious  a  reflection  is ! '  she  said.  *  It  is  so  real 
that  you  can't  believe  it  disappears  for  good.  How  often 
Madame  Pomegranate  must  have  looked  into  this  pool, 
and  yet  I  can't  find  her  in  it.  But  I  feel  she  is  really  there, 
all  the  same  —  and  who  knows  who  else.' 

'They  say  mirrors  do  not  flatter,'  the  Pasha  did  not  keep 
himself  from  rejoining,  '  but  they  are  very  discreet.  They 
tell  no  tales?' 

Helene  raised  her  eyes.  In  the  little  room  the  servants 
had  cleared  the  improvised  table  and  had  packed  up  every 
thing  again  except  the  candles. 


IN  THE  PASHA'S  GARDEN  111 

'I  have  been  up  here  a  long  time/  she  said,  'and  I  am 
rather  tired.  It  is  a  little  cold,  too.  If  you  do  not  mind,  I 
think  I  will  go  down  to  the  house  now,  with  the  servants. 
You  will  hardly  care  to  go  so  soon,  for  Ziimbiil  Agha  has 
not  finished  what  he  has  to  say  to  you/ 

'Ziimbul  Agha!'  exclaimed  the  Pasha.  'I  sent  him 
away/ 

*  Ah,  but  you  must  know  him  well  enough  to  be  sure  he 
would  not  go.  Let  us  see/  She  clapped  her  hands.  The 
servant  of  the  lantern  immediately  came  out  to  her. 
*  Will  you  ask  Zumbul  Agha  to  come  here? '  she  said.  'He 
is  on  the  porch/ 

The  man  went  to  the  door,  looked  out,  and  said  a  word. 
Then  he  stood  aside  with  a  respectful  salaam,  and  the 
eunuch  entered.  He  negligently  returned  the  salute  and 
walked  forward  until  his  air  of  importance  changed  to  one 
of  humility  at  sight  of  the  Pasha.  Salaaming  in  turn,  he 
stood  with  his  hands  folded  in  front  of  him. 

'I  will  go  down  with  you/  said  the  Pasha  to  his  wife, 
rising.  '  It  is  too  late  for  you  to  go  through  the  woods  in  the 
dark/ 

'Nonsense!'  She  gave  him  a  look  that  had  more  in  it 
than  the  tone  in  which  she  added,  'Please  do  not.  I  shall 
be  perfectly  safe  with  four  servants.  You  can  tell  them 
not  to  let  me  run  away/  Coming  nearer,  she  put  her  hand 
into  the  bosom  of  her  dress,  then  stretched  out  the  hand 
toward  him.  '  Here  is  the  key  —  the  key  of  Pandora's  box. 
Will  you  keep  it  for  me  please?  Au  revoir/ 

And  making  a  sign  to  the  servants  she  walked  out  of  the 
kiosque. 

IV 

The  Pasha  was  too  surprised,  at  first,  to  move  —  and  too 
conscious  of  the  eyes  of  servants,  too  uncertain  of  what  he 


112  IN  THE  PASHA'S  GARDEN 

should  do,  too  fearful  of  doing  the  wrong,  the  un-European, 
thing.  And  afterwards  it  was  too  late.  He  stood  watch 
ing  until  the  flicker  of  the  lantern  disappeared  among  the 
dark  trees.  Then  his  eyes  met  the  eunuch's. 

*  Why  don't  you  go  down  too? '  suggested  Ziimblil  Agha. 
The  variable  climate  of  a  great  house  had  made  him  too 
perfect  an  opportunist  not  to  take  the  line  of  being  in  favor 
again.  *  It  might  be  better.  Give  me  the  key  and  I  will  do 
what  there  is  to  do.  But  you  might  send  up  Shaban.' 

Why  not?  the  Pasha  secretly  asked  himself.  Might  it 
not  be  the  best  way  out?  At  the  same  time  he  experienced 
a  certain  revulsion  of  feeling,  now  that  Helene  was  gone,  in 
the  way  she  had  gone.  She  really  was  prodigious!  And 
with  the  vanishing  of  the  lantern  which  had  brought  him  a 
measure  of  reassurance  he  felt  the  weight  of  an  uncleared 
situation,  fantastic  but  crucial,  heavy  upon  him.  And  the 
Negro  annoyed  him  intensely. 

4 Thank  you,  Zumbiil  Agha,'  he  replied,  'but  I  am  not  the 
nurse  of  madama,  and  I  will  not  give  you  the  key.' 

If  he  only  might,  though,  he  thought  to  himself  again! 

'You  believe  her,  this  Frank  woman  whom  you  had 
never  seen  five  years  ago,  and  you  do  not  believe  me  who 
have  lived  in  your  house  longer  than  you  can  remember ! ' 

The  eunuch  said  it  so  bitterly  that  the  Pasha  was  touched 
in  spite  of  himself.  He  had  never  been  one  to  think  very 
much  about  minor  personal  relations,  but  even  at  such  a 
moment  he  could  see  —  was  it  partly  because  he  wanted 
more  time  to  make  up  his  mind?  —  that  he  had  never  liked 
Zumbiil  Agha  as  he  liked  Shaban,  for  instance.  Yet  more 
honor  had  been  due,  in  the  old  family  tradition,  to  the 
former.  And  he  had  been  associated  even  longer  with  the 
history  of  the  house. 

'My  poor  Ziirnbiil,'he  uttered  musingly,  'you  have  never 
forgiven  me  for  marrying  her/ 


IN  THE  PASHA'S  GARDEN  113 

'  My  Pasha,  you  are  not  the  first  to  marry  an  unbeliever, 
nor  the  last.  But  such  a  marriage  should  be  to  the  glory  of 
Islam,  and  not  to  its  discredit .  Who  can  trust  her  ?  She  is 
still  a  Christian.  And  she  is  too  young.  She  has  turned 
the  world  upside  down.  What  would  your  father  have  said 
to  a  daughter-in-law  who  goes  shamelessly  into  the  street 
without  a  veil,  alone,  and  who  receives  in  your  house  men 
who  are  no  relation  to  you  or  her  ?  It  is  not  right .  Women 
only  understand  one  thing,  to  make  fools  of  men.  And 
they  are  never  content  to  fool  one.' 

The  Pasha,  still  waiting  to  make  up  his  mind,  let  his 
fancy  linger  about  Zumbiil  Agha.  It  was  really  rather 
absurd,  after  all,  what  a  part  women  played  in  the  world, 
and  how  little  it  all  came  to  in  the  end !  Did  the  black  man, 
he  wondered,  walk  in  a  clearer,  cooler  world,  free  of  the 
clouds,  the  iridescences,  the  languors,  the  perfumes,  the 
strange  obsessions,  that  made  others  walk  so  often  like 
madmen?  Or  might  some  tatter  of  preposterous  humanity 
still  work  obscurely  in  him?  Or  a  bitterness  of  not  being 
like  other  men?  That  perhaps  was  why  the  Pasha  felt 
friendlier  toward  Shaban.  They  were  more  alike. 

*  You  are  right,  Zumbiil  Agha,'  he  said,  'the  world  is  up 
side  down.  But  neither  the  madama  nor  any  of  us  made 
it  so.  All  we  can  do  is  try  and  keep  our  heads  as  it  turns. 
Now,  will  you  please  tell  me  how  you  happened  to  be  up 
here?  The  madama  never  told  you  to  come.  You  know 
perfectly  well  that  the  customs  of  Europe  are  different 
from  ours,  and  that  she  does  not  like  to  have  you  follow  her 
about.' 

'What  woman  likes  to  be  followed  about?'  retorted  the 
eunuch  with  a  sly  smile.  '  I  know  you  have  told  me  to  leave 
her  alone.  But  why  was  I  brought  into  this  house?  Am  I 
to  stand  by  and  watch  dishonor  brought  upon  it  simply  be 
cause  you  have  eaten  the  poison  of  a  woman? ' 


114  IN  THE  PASHA'S  GARDEN 

'Ziimbiil  Agha,'  replied  the  Pasha  sharply,  'I  am  not 
discussing  old  and  new  or  this  and  that,  but  I  am  asking 
you  to  tell  me  what  all  this  speech  is  about/ 

*  Give  me  that  key  and  I  will  show  you  what  it  is  about/ 
said  the  eunuch,  stepping  forward. 

But  the  Pasha  found  that  he  was  not  ready  to  go  so  di 
rectly  to  the  point. 

'Can't  you  answer  a  simple  question?'  he  demanded 
irritably,  retreating  to  the  farther  side  of  the  fountain. 

The  reflection  of  the  painted  ceiling  in  the  pool  made  him 
think  of  Helene  —  and  Madame  Pomegranate.  He  stared 
into  the  still  water  as  if  to  find  Helene's  face  there.  Was 
any  other  face  hidden  beside  it,  mocking  him? 

But  Ziimbul  Agha  had  begun  again,  doggedly :  — 

'I  came  here  because  it  is  my  business  to  be  here.  I 
went  to  town  this  morning.  When  I  got  back  they  told 
me  that  you  were  away  and  that  the  madama  was  up  here, 
alone.  So  I  came.  Is  this  a  place  for  a  woman  to  be  alone 
in  —  a  young  woman,  with  men  working  all  about,  and  I 
don't  know  who,  and  a  thousand  ways  of  getting  in  and 
out  from  the  hills,  and  ten  thousand  hiding-places  in  the 
woods?' 

The  Pasha  made  a  gesture  of  impatience,  and  turned 
away.  But  after  all,  what  could  one  do  with  old  Ziimbul? 
He  had  been  brought  up  in  his  tradition.  The  Pasha 
lighted  another  cigarette  to  help  himself  think. 

*  Well,  I  came  up  here,'  continued  the  eunuch,  'and  as  I 
came  I  heard  madama  singing.     You  know  how  she  sings 
the  songs  of  the  Franks/ 

The  Pasha  knew.  But  he  did  not  say  anything.  As  he 
walked  up  and  down,  smoking  and  thinking,  his  eye  caught 
in  the  pool  a  reflection  from  the  other  side  of  the  room, 
where  the  door  of  the  latticed  room  was,  and  where  the 
cypress- wood  chest  stood  as  the  servants  had  left  it  in  the 


IN  THE  PASHA'S  GARDEN  115 

middle  of  the  floor.  Was  that  what  Helene  had  stood 
looking  at  so  long  ?  he  asked  himself.  He  wondered  that  he 
could  have  sat  beside  it  so  quietly.  It  seemed  now  like 
something  dark  and  dangerous  crouching  there  in  the 
shadow  of  the  little  room. 

'I  sat  down,  under  the  terrace,'  he  heard  the  eunuch  go 
on,  *  where  no  one  could  see  me,  and  I  listened.  And  after 
she  had  stopped  I  heard  - 

*  Never  mind  what  you  heard/  broke  in  the  Pasha.  'I 
have  heard  enough.' 

He  was  ashamed  —  ashamed  and  resolved.  He  felt  as  if 
he  had  been  playing  the  spy  with  Zumbiil  Agha.  And  after 
all,  there  was  a  simple  way  to  answer  his  question  for  him 
self.  He  threw  away  his  cigarette,  went  into  the  little 
room,  bent  over  the  chest,  and  fitted  the  key  into  the  lock. 

Just  then  a  nightingale  burst  out  singing,  but  so  near  and 
so  loud  that  he  started  and  looked  over  his  shoulder.  In  an 
instant  he  collected  himself,  feeling  the  black  man's  eyes 
upon  his.  Yet  he  could  not  suppress  the  train  of  associa 
tion  started  by  the  impassioned  trilling  of  the  bird,  even  as 
he  began  to  turn  the  key  of  the  chest  where  his  mother 
used  to  keep  her  quaint  old  furs  and  embroideries.  The 
irony  of  the  contrast  paralyzed  his  hand  for  a  strange  mo 
ment,  and  of  the  difference  between  this  spring  night  and 
other  spring  nights  when  nightingales  had  sung.  And 
what  if,  after  all,  only  calamity  were  to  come  out  of 
the  chest,  and  he  were  to  lose  his  last  gift  of  hope?  Ah! 
He  knew  at  last  what  he  would  do!  He  quickly  withdrew 
the  key  from  the  lock,  stood  up  straight  again,  and  looked 
at  Zumbiil  Agha. 

'Go  down  and  get  Shaban,'  he  ordered,  'and  don't  come 
back.' 

The  eunuch  stared.  But  if  he  had  anything  to  say,  he 
concluded  not  to  say  it.  He  saluted  silently  and  went  away. 


116  IN  THE  PASHA'S  GARDEN 


The  Pasha  sat  down  on  the  divan  and  lighted  a  cigarette. 
Almost  immediately  the  nightingale  stopped  singing. 
For  a  few  moments  Ziiinbiil  Agha's  steps  could  be  heard 
outside.  Then  it  became  very  still.  The  Pasha  did  not 
like  it.  Look  which  way  he  would,  he  could  not  help  seeing 
the  chest  —  or  listening.  He  got  up  and  went  into  the  big 
room,  where  he  turned  on  the  water  of  the  fountain.  The 
falling  drops  made  company  for  him,  and  kept  him  from 
looking  for  lost  reflections.  But  they  presently  made  him 
think  of  what  Helene  had  said  about  them.  He  went  out 
to  the  porch  and  sat  down  on  the  steps.  In  front  of  him  the 
pines  lifted  their  great  dark  canopies  against  the  stars. 
Other  stars  twinkled  between  the  trunks,  far  below,  where 
the  shore  lights  of  the  Bosphorus  were. 

It  was  so  still  that  water  sounds  came  faintly  up  to  him, 
and  every  now  and  then  he  could  even  hear  nightingales 
on  the  European  side.  Another  nightingale  began  singing 
in  his  own  woods — the  same  one  that  had  told  him  what  to 
do,  he  said  to  himself.  What  other  things  the  nightingales 
had  sung  to  him,  years  ago!  And  how  long  the  pines  had 
listened  there,  still  strong  and  green  and  rugged  and  alive, 
while  he,  and  how  many  before  him,  sat  under  them  for  a 
little  while  and  then  went  away ! 

Presently  he  heard  steps  on  the  drive  and  Shaban  came, 
carrying  something  dark  in  his  hand. 

*  What  is  that? '  asked  the  Pasha,  as  Shaban  held  it  out. 

'A  revolver,  my  Pasha.  Zumbiil  Agha  told  me  you 
wanted  it.' 

The  Pasha  laughed  curtly. 

'Zumbiil  made  a  mistake.  What  I  want  is  a  shovel,  or  a 
couple  of  them.  Can  you  find  such  a  thing  without  asking 
any  one?' 


IN  THE  PASHA'S  GARDEN  117 

*  Yes,  my  Pasha/  replied  the  Albanian  promptly,  laying 
the  revolver  on  the  steps  and  disappearing  again.  And  it 
was  not  long  before  he  was  back  with  the  desired  imple 
ments. 

'We  must  dig  a  hole,  somewhere,  Shaban,'  said  his  master 
in  a  low  voice.  *  It  must  be  in  a  place  where  people  are  not 
likely  to  go,  but  not  too  far  from  the  kiosque.' 

Shaban  immediately  started  toward  the  trees  at  the  back 
of  the  house.  The  Pasha  followed  him  silently  into  a  path 
that  wound  through  the  wood.  A  nightingale  began  to 
sing  again,  very  near  them  —  the  nightingale,  thought  the 
Pasha. 

'He  is  telling  us  where  to  go,'  he  said. 

Shaban  permitted  himself  a  low  laugh. 

'  I  think  he  is  telling  his  mistress  where  to  go.  However, 
we  will  go  too/ 

And  they  did,  bearing  away  to  one  side  of  the  path  till 
they  came  to  the  foot  of  the  tall  cypress. 

'This  will  do,'  said  the  Pasha,  'if  the  roots  are  not  in  the 
way.' 

Without  a  word  Shaban  began  to  dig.  The  Pasha  took 
the  other  spade.  To  the  simple  Albanian  it  was  nothing 
out  of  the  ordinary.  What  was  extraordinary  was  that  his 
master  was  able  to  keep  it  up,  soft  as  the  loam  was  under 
the  trees.  The  most  difficult  thing  about  it  was  that  they 
could  not  see  what  they  were  doing,  except  by  the  light  of 
an  occasional  match.  But  at  last  the  Pasha  judged  the 
ragged  excavation  of  sufficient  depth.  Then  he  led  the  way 
back  to  the  kiosque. 

They  found  Zlimbiil  Agha  in  the  little  room,  sitting  on 
the  sofa  with  a  revolver  in  either  hand. 

'I  thought  I  told  you  not  to  come  back!'  exclaimed  the 
Pasha  sternly. 


118  IN  THE  PASHA'S  GARDEN 

'Yes,'  faltered  the  old  eunuch,  'but  I  was  afraid  some 
thing  might  happen  to  you.  So  I  waited  below  the  pines. 
And  when  you  went  away  into  the  woods  with  Shaban,  I 
came  here  to  watch/  He  lifted  a  revolver  significantly. 
'I  found  the  other  one  on  the  steps.' 

*  Very  well,'  said  the  Pasha  at  length,  more  kindly.     He 
even  found  it  in  him  at  that  moment  to  be  amused  at  the 
picture  the  black  man  made,  in  his  sedate  frock  coat,  with 
his  two  weapons.     And  Ziimbiil  Agha  found  no  less  to  look 
at,  in  the  appearance  of  his  master's  clothes.     'But  now 
there  is  no  need  for  you  to  watch  any  longer/  added  the 
latter.     'If  you  want  to  watch,  do  it  at  the  bottom  of  the 
hill.     Don't  let  any  one  come  up  here.' 

'On  my  head,'  said  the  eunuch. 

He  saw  that  Shaban,  as  usual,  was  trusted  more  than 
he.  But  it  was  not  for  him  to  protest  against  the  ingrati 
tude  of  masters.  He  salaamed  and  backed  out  of  the  room. 

When  he  was  gone  the  Pasha  turned  to  Shaban. 

'This  box,  Shaban  —  you  see  this  box?  It  has  become 
a  trouble  to  us,  and  I  am  going  to  take  it  out  there.' 

The  Albanian  nodded  gravely.  He  took  hold  of  one  of 
the  handles,  to  judge  the  weight  of  the  chest.  He  lifted  his 
eyebrows. 

'Can  you  help  me  put  it  on  my  back? '  he  asked. 

*  Don't  try  to  do  that,  Shaban.     We  will  carry  it  to 
gether.' 

The  Pasha  took  hold  of  the  other  handle.  When  they  got 
as  far  as  the  outer  door  he  let  down  his  end.  It  was  not 
light. 

'Wait  a  minute,  Shaban.  Let  us  shut  up  the  kiosque, 
so  that  no  one  will  notice  anything.' 

He  went  back  to  blow  out  the  candles.  Then  he  thought 
of  the  fountain.  He  caught  a  last  play  of  broken  images 
in  the  pool  as  he  turned  off  the  water.  When  he  had  put 


IN  THE  PASHA'S  GARDEN  119 

out  the  lights  and  groped  his  way  to  the  door,  he  found 
that  Shaban  was  already  gone  with  the  chest.  A  drop  of 
water  made  a  strange  echo  behind  him  in  the  kiosque.  He 
locked  the  door  and  hurried  after  Shaban,  who  had  suc 
ceeded  in  getting  the  chest  on  his  back.  Nor  would  Sha 
ban  let  the  Pasha  help  him  till  they  came  to  the  edge  of 
the  wood.  There,  carrying  the  chest  between  them,  they 
stumbled  through  the  trees  to  the  place  that  was  ready. 

'Now  we  must  be  careful,'  said  the  Pasha.  'It  might 
slip  or  get  stuck.' 

'But  are  you  going  to  bury  the  box  too?'  demanded 
Shaban,  for  the  first  time  showing  surprise. 

'Yes,'  answered  the  Pasha.  And  he  added, '  It  is  the  box 
I  want  to  get  rid  of.' 

'  It  is  a  pity,'  remarked  Shaban  regretfully.  '  It  is  a  very 
good  box.  However,  you  know.  Now  then!' 

There  was  a  scraping  and  a  muffled  thud,  followed  by  a 
fall  of  earth  and  small  stones  on  wood.  The  Pasha  won 
dered  if  he  would  hear  anything  else.  But  first  one  and 
then  another  nightingale  began  to  fill  the  night  with  their 
April  madness. 

*  Ah,  there  are  two  of  them, '  remarked  Shaban.  '  She  will 
take  the  one  that  says  the  sweetest  things  to  her/ 

The  Pasha's  reply  was  to  throw  a  spadeful  of  earth  on  the 
chest.  Shaban  joined  him  with  such  vigor  that  the  hole 
was  soon  very  full. 

'  We  are  old,  my  Pasha,  but  we  are  good  for  something 
yet,'  said  Shaban.  'I  will  hide  the  shovels  here  in  the 
bushes,'  he  added,  'and  early  in  the  morning  I  will  come 
again,  before  any  of  those  lazy  gardeners  are  up,  and  fix  it 
so  that  no  one  will  ever  know.' 

There  at  least  was  a  person  of  whom  one  could  be  sure! 
The  Pasha  realized  that  gratefully,  as  they  walked  back 
through  the  park.  He  did  not  feel  like  talking,  but  at  least 


120  IN  THE  PASHA'S  GARDEN 

he  felt  the  satisfaction  of  having  done  what  he  had  decided 
to  do.  He  remembered  Ziimbiil  Agha  as  they  neared  the 
bottom  of  the  hill.  The  eunuch  had  taken  his  commis 
sion  more  seriously  than  it  had  been  given,  however,  or  he 
preferred  not  to  be  seen.  Perhaps  he  wanted  to  recon 
noitre  again  on  top  of  the  hill. 

4 1  don't  think  I  will  go  in  just  yet,'  said  the  Pasha  as  they 
crossed  the  bridge  into  the  lower  garden.  'I  am  rather 
dirty.  And  I  would  like  to  rest  a  little  under  the  chestnut 
trees.  Would  you  get  me  an  overcoat  please,  Shaban,  and 
a  brush  of  some  kind?  And  you  might  bring  me  a  coffee, 
too.' 

How  tired  he  was!  And  what  a  short  time  it  was,  yet 
what  an  eternity,  since  he  last  dropped  into  one  of  the 
wicker  chairs !  He  felt  for  his  cigarettes.  As  he  did  so  he 
discovered  something  else  in  his  pocket,  something  small 
and  hard  that  at  first  he  did  not  recognize.  Then  he  re 
membered  the  key  —  the  key.  —  He  suddenly  tossed 
it  into  the  pool  beside  him.  It  made  a  sharp  little  splash, 
which  was  reechoed  by  the  dripping  basins.  He  got  up 
and  felt  in  the  ivy  for  the  handle  that  shut  off  the  water. 
At  the  end  of  the  garden  the  Bosphorus  lapped  softly  in  the 
dark.  Far  away,  up  in  the  wood,  the  nightingales  were 
singing. 


LITTLE  SELVES 

BY   MARY    LERNER 

MARGARET  O'BRIEN,  a  great-aunt  and  seventy-five, 
knew  she  was  near  the  end.  She  did  not  repine,  for  she  had 
had  a  long,  hard  life  and  she  was  tired.  The  young  priest 
who  brought  her  communion  had  administered  the  last 
rites— holy  oils  on  her  eyelids  (Lord,  forgive  her  the  sins  of 
seeing!) ;  holy  oils  on  her  lips  (Lord,  forgive  her  the  sins  of 
speaking!), on  her  ears,  on  her  knotted  hands, on  her  weary 
feet.  Now  she  was  ready,  though  she  knew  the  approach 
of  the  dread  presence  would  mean  greater  suffering.  So 
she  folded  quiet  hands  beneath  her  heart,  there  where  no 
child  had  ever  lain,  yet  where  now  something  grew  and 
fattened  on  her  strength.  And  she  seemed  given  over  to 
pleasant  revery. 

Neighbors  came  in  to  see  her,  and  she  roused  herself  and 
received  them  graciously,  with  a  personal  touch  for  each. 
—  *  And  has  your  Julia  gone  to  New  York,  Mrs.  Carty? 
Nothing  would  do  her  but  she  must  be  going,  I  suppose. 
'T  was  the  selfsame  way  with  me,  when  I  was  coming  out 
here  from  the  old  country.  Full  of  money  the  streets  were, 
I  used  to  be  thinking.  Well,  well;  the  hills  far  away  are 
green.' 

Or  to  Mrs.  Devlin:  'Terence  is  at  it  again,  I  see  by  the 
look  of  you.  Poor  man!  There's  no  holding  him?  Eh, 
woman  dear !  Thirst  is  the  end  of  drinking  and  sorrow  is 
the  end  of  love.' 

If  her  visitors  stayed  longer  than  a  few  minutes,  however, 
her  attention  wandered;  her  replies  became  cryptic.  She 
would  murmur  something  about  'all  the  seven  parishes,' 


122  LITTLE  SELVES 

or  the  Wicklow  hills,  or  *  the  fair  cove  of  Cork  tippy-toe  into 
the  ocean';  then  fall  into  silence,  smiling,  eyes  closed,  yet 
with  a  singular  look  of  attention.  At  such  times,  her  callers 
would  whisper:  *  Glory  b'  t'  God!  she's  so  near  it  there's  no 
fun  in  it,'  and  slip  out  soberly  into  the  kitchen. 

Her  niece,  Anna  Lennan,  mother  of  a  fine  brood  of  chil 
dren,  would  stop  work  for  the  space  of  a  breath  and  enjoy 
a  bit  of  conversation. 

'Ain't  she  failing,  though,  the  poor  afflicted  creature!' 
Mrs.  Hanley  cried  one  day.  'Her  mind  is  going  back  on 
her  already/ 

'Are  you  of  that  opinion?  I'm  thinking  she's  mind 
enough  yet,  when  she  wants  to  attend;  but  mostly  she's 
just  drawn  into  herself,  as  busy  as  a  bee  about  something, 
whatever  it  is  that  she's  turning  over  in  her  head  day  in, 
day  out.  She  sleeps  scarce  a  wink  for  all  she  lies  there  so 
quiet,  and,  in  the  night,  my  man  and  I  hear  her  talking  to 
herself.  "No,  no,"  she'll  say.  "I've  gone  past.  I  must 
be  getting  back  to  the  start."  Or,  another  time,  "This  is 
it,  now.  If  I  could  be  stopping!" 

'And  what  do  you  think  she  is  colloguing  about?' 

'There's  no  telling.  Himself  does  be  saying  it's  in  an 
elevator  she  is,  but  that's  because  he  puts  in  the  day  churn 
ing  up  and  down  in  one  of  the  same.  What  else  can  you 
expect?  'T  is  nothing  but  " Going  up !  going  down ! "  with 
him  all  night  as  it  is.  Betune  the  two  of  them  they  have 
me  fair  destroyed  with  their  traveling.  "Are  you  lacking 
anything,  Aunt  Margaret?"  I  call  out  to  her.  "I  am 
not,"  she  answers,  impatient-like.  "Don't  be  ever  fussing 
and  too-ing,  will  you?" 

'Tch!tch!' 

'And  do  you  suppose  the  children  are  a  comfort  to  her? 
Sorra  bit.  Just  a  look  at  them  and  she  wants  to  be  alone. 


LITTLE  SELVES  123 

"Take  them  away,  let  you,"  says  she,  shutting  her  eyes. 
"The  others  is  realer." ' 

'And  you  think  she's  in  her  right  mind  all  the  same?' 

'I  do.  'T  is  just  something  she  likes  to  be  thinking  over 
— •  something  she's  fair  dotty  about.  Why,  it's  the  same 
when  Father  Flint  is  here.  Polite  and  riverintial  at  the 
first,  then  impatient,  and,  if  the  poor  man  doesn't  be  taking 
the  hint,  she  just  closes  up  shop  and  off  again  into  her 
whimsies.  You'd  swear  she  was  in  fear  of  missing  some 
thing?' 

The  visitor,  being  a  young  wife,  had  an  explanation  to 
hazard.  '  If  she  was  a  widow  woman,  now,  or  married  — • 
perhaps  she  had  a  liking  for  somebody  once.  Perhaps  she 
might  be  trying  to  imagine  them  young  days  over  again. 
Do  you  think  could  it  be  that?' 

Anna  shook  her  head.  'My  mother  used  to  say  she  was 
a  born  old  maid.  All  she  wanted  was  work  and  saving  her 
bit  of  money,  and  to  church  every  minute  she  could  be 
sparing/ 

'  Still,  you  can't  be  telling.  'T  is  often  that  kind  weeps 
sorest  when  't  is  too  late.  My  own  old  aunt  used  to  cry, 
"  If  I  could  be  twenty-five  again,  would  n't  I  do  different ! "  ' 

'Maybe,  maybe,  though  I  doubt  could  it  be  so.' 

Nor  was  it  so.  The  old  woman,  lying  back  so  quietly 
among  her  pillows,  with  closed  eyes,  yet  with  that  look  of 
singular  intentness  and  concentration,  was  seeking  no  lover 
of  her  youth;  though,  indeed,  she  had  had  one  once,  and 
from  time  to  time  he  did  enter  her  revery,  try  as  she  would 
to  prevent  him.  At  that  point,  she  always  made  the  sin 
gular  comment,  'Gone  past!  I  must  be  getting  back  to 
the  beginning,'  and,  pressing  back  into  her  earliest  con 
sciousness,  she  would  remount  the  flooding  current  of  the 
years.  Each  time,  she  hoped  to  get  further,  —  though 
remoter  shapes  were  illusive,  and,  if  approached  too  closely, 


124  LITTLE  SELVES 

vanished,  —  for,  once  embarked  on  her  river  of  memories, 
the  descent  was  relentlessly  swift.  How  tantalizing  that 
swiftness !  However  she  yearned  to  linger,  she  was  rushed 
along  till,  all  too  soon,  she  sailed  into  the  common  light  of 
day.  At  that  point,  she  always  put  about,  and  laboriously 
recommenced  the  ascent. 

To-day,  something  her  niece  had  said  about  Donnybrook 
Fair  —  for  Anna,  too,  was  a  child  of  the  old  sod  —  seemed 
to  swell  out  with  a  fair  wind  the  sails  of  her  visionary  bark. 
She  closed  her  mind  to  all  familiar  shapes  and  strained  back 
—  way,  way  back,  concentrating  all  her  powers  in  an  effort 
of  will.  For  a  bit  she  seemed  to  hover  in  populous  space. 
This  did  not  disturb  her;  she  had  experienced  the  same 
thing  before.  It  simply  meant  that  she  had  mounted  pretty 
well  up  to  the  fountain-head.  The  figures,  when  they  did 
come,  would  be  the  ones  she  most  desired. 

At  last,  they  began  to  take  shape,  tenuously  at  first, 
then  of  fuller  body,  each  bringing  its  own  setting,  its  own 
atmospheric  suggestion  —  whether  of  dove-feathered  Irish 
cloud  and  fresh  greensward,  sudden  downpour,  or  equally 
sudden  clearing,  with  continual  leafy  drip,  drip,  drip,  in  the 
midst  of  brilliant  sunshine. 

For  Margaret  O'Brien,  ardent  summer  sunlight  seemed 
suddenly  to  pervade  the  cool,  orderly  little  bed-chamber. 
Then,  'Here  she  is ! '  and  a  wee  girl  of  four  danced  into  view, 
wearing  a  dress  of  pink  print,  very  tight  at  the  top  and 
very  full  at  the  bottom.  She  led  the  way  to  a  tiny  new 
house  whence  issued  the  cheery  voice  of  hammers.  Lum 
ber  and  tools  were  lying  round;  from  within  came  men's 
voices.  The  small  girl  stamped  up  the  steps  and  looked  in. 
Then  she  made  for  the  narrow  stair. 

'  Where's  Margaret  gone  to ? '  said  one  of  the  men.  '  The 
upper  floor's  not  finished.  It's  falling  through  the  young 
one  will  be.' 


LITTLE  SELVES  125 

*  Peggy!*  called  the  older  man.     'Come  down  here  with 
you/ 

There  was  a  delighted  squeal.  The  pink  dress  appeared 
at  the  head  of  the  stairs.  '  Oh;  the  funny  little  man,  daddy ! 
Such  a  funny  little  old  man  with  a  high  hat !  Come  quick, 
let  you,  and  see  him.' 

The  two  men  ran  to  the  stairs. 

*  Where  is  he?' 

She  turned  back  and  pointed.  Then  her  face  fell. 
*  Gone !  the  little  man  is  gone ! ' 

Her  father  laughed  and  picked  her  up  in  his  arms .  'How 
big  was  he,  Peg?  As  big  as  yourself,  I  wonder? ' 

'No,  no!     Small.' 

'As  big  as  the  baby?' 

She  considered  a  moment.  'Yes,  just  as  big  as  that. 
But  a  man,  da.' 

'Well,  why  are  n't  you  after  catching  him  and  holding 
him  for  ransom  ?  'T  is  pots  and  pots  o'  gold  they've  hidden 
away,  the  little  people,  and  will  be  paying  a  body  what  he 
asks  to  let  them  go.' 

She  pouted,  on  the  verge  of  tears.  '  I  want  him  to  come 
back.' 

'I  mistrust  he  won't  be  doing  that,  the  leprechaun. 
Once  you  take  your  eye  away,  it's  off  with  him  for  good  and 
all.' 

Margaret  O'Brien  hugged  herself  with  delight.  That  was 
a  new  one;  she  had  never  got  back  that  far  before.  Yet 
how  well  she  remembered  it  all !  She  seemed  to  smell  the 
woody  pungency  of  the  lumber,  the  limey  odor  of  white 
wash  from  the  field-stone  cellar. 

The  old  woman's  dream  went  on.  Out  of  the  inexhausti 
ble  storehouse  of  the  past,  she  summoned,  one  by  one,  her 
much-loved  memories.  There  was  a  pig-tailed  Margaret 
in  bonnet  and  shawl,  trudging  to  school  one  wintry  day. 


126  LITTLE  SELVES 

She  had  seen  many  wintry  school-days,  but  this  one  stood 
out  by  reason  of  the  tears  she  had  shed  by  the  way.  She 
saw  the  long  benches,  the  slates,  the  charts,  the  tall  teacher 
at  his  desk.  With  a  swelling  of  the  throat,  she  saw  the 
little  girl  sob  out  her  declaration :  *  I'm  not  for  coming  no 
more,  Mr.  Wilde.' 

*  What's  that,  Margaret?  And  why  not?  Have  n't  I 
been  good  to  you? ' 

Tears  choked  the  child.  'Oh,  Mr.  Wilde,  it's  just  be 
cause  you're  so  terrible  good  to  me.  They  say  you  are  try 
ing  to  make  a  Protestant  out  of  me.  So  I'll  not  be  coming 
no  more.' 

The  tall  man  drew  the  little  girl  to  his  knee  and  reassured 
her.  Margaret  O'Brien  could  review  that  scene  with  ten 
der  delight  now.  She  had  not  been  forced  to  give  up  her 
beloved  school.  Mr.  Wilde  had  explained  to  her  that  her 
brothers  were  merely  teasing  her  because  she  was  so  quick 
and  such  a  favorite. 

A  little  Margaret  knelt  on  the  cold  stone  floor  at  church 
and  stared  at  the  pictured  saints  or  heard  the  budding 
branches  rustle  in  the  orchard  outside.  Another  Margaret, 
a  little  taller,  begged  for  a  new  sheet  of  ballads  every  time 
her  father  went  to  the  fair.  —  There  were  the  long  flimsy 
sheets,  with  closely  printed  verses.  These  you  must  adapt 
to  familiar  tunes.  This  Margaret,  then,  swept  the  hearth 
and  stacked  the  turf  and  sang  from  her  bench  in  the  chim 
ney-corner.  Sometimes  it  was  something  about  *  the  little 
old  red  coat  me  father  wore,'  which  was  *  All  buttons,  but 
tons,  buttons,  buttons ;  all  buttons  down  before' ;  or  another 
beginning,  — 

4  O,  dear,  what  can  the  matter  be? 

Johnnie's  so  long  at  the  fair! 
He  promised  to  buy  me  a  knot  of  blue  ribbon 
To  tie  up  my  bonny  brown  hair.' 


LITTLE  SELVES  127 

Then  there  was  a  picture  of  the  time  the  fairies  actually 
bewitched  the  churn,  and,  labor  as  you  might,  no  butter 
would  form,  not  the  least  tiny  speck.  Margaret  and  her 
mother  took  the  churn  apart  and  examined  every  part  of  it. 
Nothing  out  of  the  way.  '  'T  is  the  fairies  is  in  it,'  her 
mother  said.  '  All  Souls'  Day  a-Friday.  Put  out  a  saucer 
of  cream  the  night  for  the  little  people,  let  you.'  A  well- 
grown  girl  in  a  blue  cotton  frock,  the  long  braids  of  her 
black  hair  whipping  about  her  in  the  windy  evening,  set  out 
the  cream  on  the  stone  flags  before  the  low  doorway,  wast 
ing  no  time  in  getting  in  again.  The  next  day,  how  the 
butter '  came' !  Hardly  started  they  were,  when  they  could 
feel  it  forming.  When  Margaret  washed  the  dasher,  she 
'kept  an  eye  out'  for  the  dark  corners  of  the  room,  for  the 
air  seemed  thronged  and  murmurous. 

After  this  picture,  came  always  the  same  tall  girl  still  in 
the  same  blue  frock,  this  time  with  a  shawl  on  her  head. 
She  brought  in  potatoes  from  the  sheltered  heaps  that 
wintered  out  in  the  open.  From  one  pailful  she  picked  out 
a  little  flat  stone,  rectangular  and  smoother  and  more 
evenly  proportioned  than  any  stone  she  had  ever  seen. 

*  What  a  funny  stone ! '  she  said  to  her  mother. 

Her  mother  left  carding  her  wool  to  look.  'You  may 
well  say  so.  'T  is  one  of  the  fairies'  tables.  Look  close 
and  you'll  be  turning  up  their  little  chairs  as  well.' 

It  was  as  her  mother  said.  Margaret  found  four  smaller 
stones  of  like  appearance,  which  one  might  well  imagine  to 
be  stools  for  tiny  dolls. 

'  Shall  I  be  giving  them  to  little  Bee  for  playthings? ' 

'  You  will  not.  You'll  be  putting  them  outside.  In  the 
morning,  though  you  may  be  searching  the  countryside,  no 
trace  of  them  will  you  find,  for  the  fairies  will  be  taking 
them  again/ 

So  Margaret  stacked  the  fairy  table  and  chairs  outside. 


128  LITTLE  SELVES 

Next  morning,  she  ran  out  half  reluctantly,  for  she  was 
afraid  she  would  find  them  and  that  would  spoil  the  story. 
But,  no!  they  were  gone.  She  never  saw  them  again, 
though  she  searched  in  all  imaginable  places.  Nor  was 
that  the  last  potato  heap  to  yield  these  mysterious  stones. 
Margaret,  growing  from  scene  to  scene,  appeared  again 
in  a  group  of  laughing  boys  and  girls. 

*  What '11  we  play  now?' 

*  Let's  write  the  ivy  test.' 

*  Here's  leaves.' 

Each  wrote  a  name  on  a  leaf  and  dropped  it  into  a  jar  of 
water.  Next  morning,  Margaret,  who  had  misgivings, 
stole  down  early  and  searched  for  her  leaf.  Yes,  the  die 
was  cast!  At  the  sight  of  its  bruised  surface,  ready  tears 
flooded  her  eyes.  She  had  written  the  name  of  her  little 
grandmother,  and  the  condition  of  the  leaf  foretold  death 
within  the  year.  The  other  leaves  were  unmarred.  She 
quickly  destroyed  the  ill-omened  bit  of  ivy  and  said  nothing 
about  it,  though  the  children  clamored.  'There's  one  leaf 
short.  Whose  is  gone?'  'Mine  is  there!'  'Is  it  yours, 
John?'  'Is  it  yours,  Esther?'  But  Margaret  kept  her 
counsel,  and,  within  the  year,  the  little  grandmother  was 
dead.  Of  course,  she  was  old,  though  vigorous;  yet  Mar 
garet  would  never  play  that  game  again.  It  was  like  gam 
bling  with  fate. 

And  still  the  girls  kept  swinging  past.  Steadily,  all  too 
swiftly,  Margaret  shot  up  to  a  woman's  stature;  her  skirts 
crept  down,  her  braids  ought  to  have  been  bobbed  up 
behind.  She  let  them  hang,  however,  and  still  ran  with 
the  boys,  questing  the  bogs,  climbing  the  apple  trees,  storm 
ing  the  wind-swept  hills.  Her  mother  would  point  to  her 
sister  Mary,  who,  though  younger,  sat  now  by  the  fire 
with  her  'spriggin"  [embroidery]  for  'the  quality.'  Mary 


LITTLE  SELVES  129 

could  crochet,  too,  and  had  a  fine  range  of  'shamrogue' 
patterns.  So  the  mother  would  chide  Margaret. 

'What  kind  of  a  girl  are  you,  at  all,  to  be  ever  lepping 
and  tearing  like  a  redshanks  [deer]?  'T  is  high  time  for 
you  to  be  getting  sensible  and  learning  something.  Whis 
tles  and  scouting-guns  is  all  you're  good  for,  and  there's 
no  silver  in  them  things  as  far  as  I  can  see.' 

What  fine  whistles  she  contrived  out  of  the  pithy  willow 
shoots  in  the  spring !  And  the  scouting-guns  hollowed  out 
of  elder-stalks,  which  they  charged  with  water  from  the 
brook  by  means  of  wadded  sticks,  working  piston- wise! 
They  would  hide  behind  a  hedge  and  bespatter  enemies  and 
friends  alike.  Many's  the  time  they  got  their  ears  warmed 
in  consequence  or  went  supperless  to  bed,  pretending  not  to 
see  the  table  spread  with  baked  potatoes,  —  '  laughing  po 
tatoes,'  they  called  them,  because  they  were  ever  splitting 
their  sides, — besides  delicious  buttermilk,  freshly-laid  eggs, 
oat-cakes  and  fresh  butter.  '  A  child  without  supper  is  two 
to  breakfast,'  their  mother  would  say,  smiling,  when  she 
saw  them  'tackle'  their  stirabout  the  next  day. 

How  full  of  verve  and  life  were  all  these  figures !  That 
glancing  creature  grow  old?  How  could  such  things  be! 
The  sober  pace  of  maturity  even  seemed  out  of  her  star. 
Yet  here  she  was,  growing  up,  for  all  her  reluctance.  An 
awkward  gossoon  leaned  over  the  gate  in  the  moonlight, 
though  she  was  indoors,  ready  to  hide.  But  nobody  no 
ticed  her  alarm. 

'There's  that  long-legged  McMurray  lad  again;  scouting 
after  Mary,  I'll  be  bound,'  said  her  mother,  all  unawares. 

But  it  was  not  Mary  that  he  came  for,  though  she  mar 
ried  him  just  the  same,  and  came  out  to  America  with  their 
children  some  years  after  her  sister's  lone  pilgrimage. 

The  intrusion  of  Jerry  McMurray  signaled  the  grounding 
of  her  dream-bark  on  the  shoals  of  reality.  Who  cared 


130  LITTLE  SELVES 

about  the  cut-and-dried  life  of  a  grown  woman?  Enchant 
ment  now  lay  behind  her,  and,  if  the  intervals  between 
periods  of  pain  permitted,  she  again  turned  an  expectant 
face  toward  the  old  childish  visions.  Sometimes  she  could 
make  the  trip  twice  over  without  being  overtaken  by  suffer 
ing.  But  her  intervals  of  comfort  grew  steadily  shorter; 
frequently  she  was  interrupted  before  she  could  get  rightly 
launched  on  her  delight.  And  always  there  seemed  to  be 
one  vision  more  illusive  than  the  rest  which  she  particularly 
longed  to  recapture.  At  last,  chance  words  of  Anna's  put 
her  on  its  trail  in  this  wise. 

When  she  was  not,  as  her  niece  said,  *  in  her  trance,  wool 
gathering,5  Anna  did  her  best  to  distract  her,  sending  the 
children  in  to  ask  'would  she  have  a  sup  of  tea  now/  or  a 
taste  of  wine  jelly.  One  day,  after  the  invalid  had  spent  a 
bad  night,  she  brought  in  her  new  long  silk  coat  for  her 
aunt's  inspection,  for  the  old  woman  had  always  been 
*  tasty'  and  *  dressy,'  and  had  made  many  a  fine  gown  in 
her  day.  The  sharp  old  eyes  lingered  on  the  rich  and  truly 
striking  braid  ornament  that  secured  the  loose  front  of  the 
garment. 

*  What's  that  plaster?'  she  demanded,  disparagingly. 

Anna, inclined  to  be  wroth,  retorted:  *I  suppose  you'd  be 
preferring  one  o'  them  tight  ganzy  [sweater]  things  that  fit 
the  figger  like  a  jersey,  all  buttoned  down  before.' 

A  sudden  light  flamed  in  the  old  face.  'I  have  it!'  she 
cried.  *  'T  is  what  I've  been  seeking  this  good  while.  T 
will  come  now  —  the  red  coat !  I  must  be  getting  back  to 
the  beginning.' 

With  that,  she  was  off,  relaxing  and  composing  herself,  as 
if  surrendering  to  the  spell  of  a  hypnotist. 

To  reach  any  desired  picture  in  her  gallery,  she  must 
start  at  the  outset.     Then  they  followed  on,  in  due  order  - 
all  that  procession  of  little  girls:  pink  clad,  blue-print  clad, 


LITTLE  SELVES  131 

bare-legged  or  brogan-shod ;  flirting  their  short  skirts,  plait 
ing  their  heavy  braids .  About  half  way  along,  a  new  figure 
asserted  itself  —  a  girl  of  nine  or  ten,  who  twisted  this  way 
and  that  before  a  blurred  bit  of  mirror  and  frowned  at  the 
red  coat  that  flapped  about  her  heels,  —  bought  oversize, 
you  may  be  sure,  so  that  she  should  n't  grow  out  of  it  too 
soon.  The  sleeves  swallowed  her  little  brown  hands,  the 
shoulders  and  back  were  grotesquely  sack-like,  the  front 
had  a  puss  [pout]  on  it. 

'  'T  is  the  very  fetch  of  Paddy  the  gander  I  am  in  it. 
I'll  not  be  wearing  it  so.'  She  frowned  with  sudden  intent- 
ness.  *  Could  I  be  fitting  it  a  bit,  I  wonder,  the  way  mother 
does  cut  down  John's  coats  for  Martin? ' 

With  needle,  scissors  and  thread,  she  crept  up  to  her  little 
chamber  under  the  eaves.  It  was  early  in  the  forenoon 
when  she  set  to  work  ripping.  The  morning  passed,  and 
the  dinner  hour. 

*  Peggy!     Where's  the  girl  gone  to,  I  wonder?' 
'To  Aunt  Theresa's,  I'm  thinking.' 

*  Well,  it's  glad  I  am  she's  out  o'  my  sight,  for  my  hands 
itched  to  be  shaking  her.     Stand  and  twist  herself  inside 
out  she  did,  fussing  over  the  fit  of  the  good  coat  I'm  after 
buying  her.     The  little  f ustherer ! ' 

For  the  small  tailoress  under  the  roof,  the  afternoon  sped 
on  winged  feet:  pinning,  basting,  and  stitching;  trying  on, 
ripping  out  again,  and  re-fitting.  'I'll  be  taking  it  in  a 
wee  bit  more.'  She  had  to  crowd  up  to  the  window  to 
catch  the  last  of  the  daylight.  At  dusk,  she  swept  her  dark 
hair  from  her  flushed  cheeks  and  forced  her  sturdy  body  into 
the  red  coat.  It  was  a 'fit,' believe  you  me!  Modeled  on 
the  lines  of  the  riding-habit  of  a  full-figured  lady  she  had 
seen  hunting  about  the  country-side,  it  buttoned  up  tight 
over  her  flat,  boyish  chest  and  bottled  up  her  squarish  little 
waist.  About  her  narrow  hips,  it  rippled  out  in  a  short 


132  LITTLE  SELVES 

'frisk.'     Beneath,  her  calico  skirt,  and  bramble-scratched 
brown  legs. 

Warmed  with  triumph,  she  flew  downstairs.  Her  mother 
and  a  neighbor  were  sitting  in  the  glow  of  the  peat  fire. 
She  tried  to  meet  them  with  assurance,  but  at  sight  of  their 
amazed  faces,  misgiving  clutched  her.  She  pivoted  before 
the  mirror. 

*  Holy  hour ! '  cried  her  mother.     *  What  sausage-skin  is 
that  you've  got  into?'     Then,  as  comprehension  grew: 
*  Glory  b'  t'  God,  Ellen !  't  is  the  remains  of  the  fine  new 
coat,  I'm  after  buying  her,  large  enough  to  last  her  the  next 
five  years ! ' 

'  'T  was  too  large!'  the  child  whimpered.  'A  gander  I 
looked  in  it ! '  Then,  cajolingly, '  I'm  but  after  taking  it  in 
a  bit,  ma.  'T  will  do  grand  now,  and  maybe  I'll  not  be 
getting  much  fatter.  Look  at  the  fit  of  it,  just! ' 

*  Fit !     God  save  the  mark ! '  cried  her  mother. 

'Is  the  child  after  making  that  jacket  herself?'  asked 
the  neighbor. 

'I  am,'  Margaret  spoke  up,  defiantly.  'I  cut  it  and 
shaped  it  and  put  it  together.  It  has  even  a  frisk  to  the 
tail.' 

'Maggie,'  said  the  neighbor  to  Margaret's  mother. 
'  'T  is  as  good  a  piece  o'  work  for  a  child  of  her  years  as  ever 
I  see.  You  ought  not  to  be  faulting  her,  she's  done  that 
well.  And,'  bursting  into  irrepressible  laughter, '  it's  herself 
will  have  to  be  wearing  it,  woman  dear !  All  she  needs  now 
is  a  horse  and  a  side-saddle  to  be  an  equeestrieen ! ' 

So  the  wanton  destruction  of  the  good  red  coat  —  in  that 
house  where  good  coats  were  sadly  infrequent  —  ended 
with  a  laugh  after  all.  How  long  she  wore  that  tight  jacket, 
and  how  grand  she  felt  in  it,  let  the  other  children  laugh  as 
they  would ! 

What  joy  the  old  woman  took  in  this  incident !     With  its 


LITTLE  SELVES  133 

fullness  of  detail,  it  achieved  a  delicious  suggestion  of  per 
manence,  in  contrast  to  the  illusiveness  of  other  isolated 
moments.  Margaret  O'Brien  saw  all  these  other  figures, 
but  she  really  was  the  child  with  the  red  coat.  In  the  long 
years  between,  she  had  fashioned  many  fine  dresses  — 
gowned  gay  girls  for  their  conquests  and  robed  fair  brides 
for  the  altar.  Of  all  these,  nothing  now  remained;  but  she 
could  feel  the  good  stuff  of  the  red  kersey  under  her  little 
needle-scratched  fingers,  and  see  the  glow  of  its  rich  color 
against  her  wind-kissed  brown  cheek. 

4 To  the  life!'  she  exclaimed  aloud,  exultantly.  'To  the 
very  life ! ' 

'What  life,  Aunt  Margaret?'  asked  Anna,  with  gentle 
solicitude.  'Is  it  afraid  of  the  end  you  are,  darling? ' 

'  No,  no,  asthore.  I've  resigned  myself  long  since,  though 
't  was  bitter  knowledge  at  the  outset.  Well,  well,  God  is 
good  and  we  can't  live  forever.' 

Her  eyes,  opening  to  the  two  flaring  patent  gas-burners, 
winked  as  if  she  had  dwelt  long  in  a  milder  light.  '  What's 
all  this  glare  about?'  she  asked,  playfully.  'I  guess  the 
chandler's  wife  is  dead.  Snuff  out  the  whole  of  them  star 
ing  candles,  let  you.  'T  is  daylight  yet;  just  the  time  o' 
day  I  always  did  like  the  best.' 

Anna  obeyed  and  sat  down  beside  the  bed  in  the  soft 
spring  dusk.  A  little  wind  crept  in  under  the  floating  white 
curtains,  bringing  with  it  the  sweetness  of  new  grass  and 
pear-blossoms  from  the  trim  yard.  It  seemed  an  interval 
set  apart  from  the  hurrying  hours  of  the  busy  day  for  rest 
and  thought  and  confidences  —  an  open  moment.  The  old 
woman  must  have  felt  its  invitation,  for  she  turned  her  head 
and  held  out  a  shy  hand  to  her  niece. 

'Anna,  my  girl,  you  imagine  't  is  the  full  o'  the  moon 
with  me,  I'm  thinking.  But,  no,  never  woman  was  more  in 
her  right  mind  than  I.  Do  you  want  I  should  be  telling 


134  LITTLE  SELVES 

you  what  I've  been  hatching  these  many  long  days  and 
nights?  'T  will  be  a  good  laugh  for  you,  I'll  go  bail.* 

And,  as  best  she  could,  she  gave  the  trend  of  her  imagin 
ings. 

Anna  did  not  laugh,  however.  Instead  —  with  the  ever- 
ready  sympathy  and  comprehension  of  the  Celt  —  she 
showed  brimming  eyes.  *  'T  is  a  thought  I've  often  myself, 
let  me  tell  you,'  she  admitted.  'Of  all  the  little  girls  that 
were  me,  and  now  can  be  living  no  longer.' 

*  You've  said  it!'  cried  the  old  woman,  delighted  at  her 
unexpected  responsiveness.  'Only  with  me,  't  is  fair  pit- 
'yus.  There's  all  those  poor  dear  lasses  there's  nobody  but 
me  left  to  remember,  and  soon  there'll  not  be  even  that. 
Sometimes  they  seem  to  be  pleading  just  not  to  be  forgot 
ten,  so  I  have  to  be  keeping  them  alive  in  my  head.  I'm 
succeeding,  too,  and,  if  you'll  believe  me,  't  is  them  little 
whips  seem  to  be  the  real  ones,  and  the  live  children  here 
the  shadders.'  Her  voice  choked  with  sudden  tears. 
'They're  all  the  children  ever  I  had.  My  grief!  that  I'll 
have  to  be  leaving  them !  They'll  die  now,  for  no  man  lives 
who  can  remember  them  any  more.' 

Anna's  beauty,  already  fading  with  the  cares  of  house 
and  children,  seemed  to  put  on  all  its  former  fresh  charm. 
She  leaned  forward  with  girlish  eagerness.  'Auntie  Mar 
garet,'  she  breathed,  with  new  tenderness,  'there's  many  a 
day  left  you  yet.  I'll  be  sitting  here  aside  of  you  every 
evening  at  twilight  just,  and  you  can  be  showing  me  the 
lasses  you  have  in  mind.  Many's  the  time  my  mother  told 
me  of  the  old  place,  and  I  can  remember  it  well  enough  my 
self,  though  I  was  the  youngest  of  the  lot.  So  you  can  be 
filling  it  with  all  of  our  people  —  Mary  and  Margaret, 
John,  Martin  and  Esther,  Uncle  Sheamus  and  the  rest.  I'll 
see  them  just  as  clear  as  yourself,  for  I've  a  place  in  my  head 
where  pictures  come  as  thick  and  sharp  as  stars  on  a  frosty 


LITTLE  SELVES  135 

night,  when  I  get  thinking.  Then,  with  me  ever  calling 
them  up,  they'll  be  dancing  and  stravaging  about  till 
doomsday/ 

So  the  old  woman  had  her  heart's  desire.  She  recreated 
her  earlier  selves  and  passed  them  on,  happy  in  the  thought 
that  she  was  saving  them  from  oblivion.  'Do  you  mind 
that  bold  lass  clouting  her  pet  bull,  now?'  she  would  ask, 
with  delight,  speaking  more  and  more  as  if  of  a  third  person. 
*  And  that  other  hussy  that's  after  making  a  ganzy  out  of 
her  good  coat?  I'd  admire  to  have  the  leathering  of  that 
one.' 

Still  the  old  woman  lingered,  a  good  month  beyond  her 
allotted  time.  As  spring  ripened,  the  days  grew  long.  In 
the  slow-fading  twilights,  the  two  women  set  their  stage, 
gave  cues  for  entrances  and  exits.  Over  the  white  coun 
terpane  danced  the  joyous  figures,  so  radiant,  so  incredibly 
young,  the  whole  cycle  of  a  woman's  girlhood.  Grown 
familiar  now,  they  came  of  their  own  accord,  soothing  her 
hours  of  pain  with  their  laughing  beauty,  or,  suddenly 
contemplative,  assisting  with  seemly  decorum  at  her  devo 
tional  ecstasies. 

'A  saintly  woman,'  the  young  priest  told  Anna  on  one  of 
the  last  days.  'She  will  make  a  holy  end.  Her  medita 
tions  must  be  beautiful,  for  she  has  the  true  light  of  Heaven 
on  her  face.  She  looks  as  if  she  heard  already  the  choiring 
of  the  angels.' 

And  Anna,  respectfully  agreeing,  kept  her  counsel.  He 
was  a  good  and  sympathetic  man  and  a  priest  of  God,  but, 
American-born,  he  was,  like  her  stolid,  kindly  husband,  out 
side  the  magic  circle  of  comprehension.  'He  sees  nothing, 
poor  man,'  she  thought,  indulgently.  'But  he  does  mean 
well.'  So  she  set  her  husband  to  'mind'  the  young  ones, 
and,  easily  doffing  the  sordid  preoccupations  of  every  day, 
slipped  back  into  the  enchanted  ring. 


THE   FAILURE 

BY    CHARLES    CALDWELL   DOBIE 


AT  an  unearthly  hour  in  the  morning  John  Scidmore  sat 
up  suddenly  in  his  bed  and  remembered  Julia  Norris's  tele 
phone  message.  He  rose  at  once,  switched  on  the  shaded 
light  on  the  bureau,  and  looked  at  his  watch :  the  minute 
hand  had  just  swung  past  three  o'clock. 

Undisturbed  by  her  husband's  nocturnal  prowling,  Kitty 
Scidmore  slept  with  almost  childish  naturalness.  He 
plunged  the  room  into  darkness  again  and  felt  his  way  out 
into  the  hall  and  down  the  short  flight  of  stairs  to  the 
dining-room. 

The  night  was  unusually  warm.  As  he  opened  the  gar 
den  window,  pungent  odors  of  dry  stubble  wet  with  a  late 
October  dew  floated  toward  him.  He  leaned  out  and  drew 
in  a  deep  breath,  but  his  attempts  at  calmness  failed 
utterly. 

He  knew  that  it  was  absurd  to  fret;  he  might  just  as 
well  go  back  to  bed  and  sleep  peacefully.  One  could  not 
place  a  line  of  insurance  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
Upon  what  day  had  Julia  Norris  telephoned?  Was  it  last 
Friday?  Yes,  he  remembered  now,  perfectly.  He  had 
been  busy  with  a  peevish  customer  who  haggled  about  a 
twenty-five-cent  overcharge.  In  the  midst  of  the  con 
troversy,  in  her  characteristically  impulsive  way,  Julia 
Norris  had  rung  up :  — 

'O  John!  is  that  you,  John?  Place  ten  thousand  dollars 
with  the  Falcon  Insurance  Company  on  my  flats  in  the 
Richmond  District.' 


THE  FAILURE  137 

He  had  recognized  her  voice  even  before  she  gave  her 
name.  And  he  had  been  so  sure  he  would  not  forget.  Why, 
he  had  been  so  very  sure  that  he  had  not  troubled  to  make 
a  memorandum.  And  to  think  that  the  excitement  of 
arguing  a  twenty-five-cent  overcharge  should  have  so  com 
pletely  put  to  rout  Julia  Norris's  order! 

A  sudden  rage  at  his  carelessness  seized  him.  How  he 
loathed  his  life,  his  work,  and  the  soul-killing  routine  and 
cramped  vision  of  the  figurative  counting-house!  He 
switched  on  the  light  and  peered  into  the  mirror  over  the 
mantel,  smiling  satirically  at  the  reflection  greeting  him,  — 
the  reflection  of  plain  Johnny  Scidmore,  insurance  broker's 
clerk,  a  commonplace,  rather  undersized,  law-abiding  citi 
zen  just  turning  forty,  whose  face  showed  the  lack  of  that 
forceful  ability  necessary  to  convert  opportunity  into 
success. 

As  he  drew  back  from  the  glass  with  a  shrug  of  disgust, 
the  futility  of  his  life  flashed  over  him.  He  still  could 
remember  the  time  when  he  went  blithely  to  the  day's 
wTork,  buoyed  by  youth's  intangible  hope  of  better  things. 
But  the  years  soon  took  their  toll  of  enthusiasm,  and  there 
were  days  when  John  Scidmore  went  through  his  paces 
like  a  trick  horse  urged  by  the  whip  of  necessity.  Lately 
he  had  been  worried  to  find  how  easily  he  was  forgetting 
things  —  telephone  messages,  instructions  from  his  chief, 
orders  to  place  insurance.  So  far  nothing  very  important 
had  slipped  by  him,  but  now  he  felt  quite  sure  that  he 
could  never  trust  himself  again.  There  were  many  reasons 
why  he  should  have  remembered  Julia  Norris's  orders. 
First,  because  she  was  his  wife's  friend;  second,  because  a 
ten-thousand-dollar  order  to  his  credit  was  not  an  every 
day  occurrence;  and  third,  because  the  circumstance  that 
had  overshadowed  it  was  relatively  of  so  little  importance. 

For  over  a  week,  then,  Julia  Norris's  property  had  gone 


138  THE  FAILURE 

without  insurance  protection.  What  if  it  had  burned  up? 
What  if  it  were  burning  up  at  this  very  moment?  He  sat 
down  suddenly. 

He  got  up  again,  fumbled  about,  and  found  cigarettes 
and  a  box  of  matches.  Two  cigarettes  quieted  him.  He 
began  to  think  that  he  was  a  silly  fool,  mooning  about 
when  he  should  have  been  sleeping.  In  the  morning  he 
would  take  an  early  train  to  San  Francisco  and  place  the 
line  without  further  ado.  Yes,  after  all,  he  was  as  silly 
and  notional  as  a  young  schoolgirl.  He  put  down  the 
window,  turned  off  the  lights,  and  crawled  upstairs  to  bed. 


ii 

True  to  his  resolve,  John  Scidmore  took  an  early  train 
to  San  Francisco  next  morning,  although  he  could  not  have 
said  why.  It  was  as  impossible  to  place  insurance  at  eight- 
thirty  as  it  was  at  three  A.M.,  since  no  self-respecting  in 
surance  office  opened  until  nine.  Still  there  is  a  certain 
comfort  in  even  futile  activity  when  one  has  the  fidgets. 

It  was  a  beautiful  October  morning  such  as  often  veils 
the  Berkeley  hills  in  faint  purple  and  draws  a  soft  glamour 
over  the  city  of  San  Francisco;  and  as  Scidmore  walked 
briskly  down  the  elm-shaded  streets  of  Berkeley  toward 
the  train,  he  felt  elusively  happy,  notwithstanding  the  rip 
ples  below  the  surface  of  his  content. 

The  office-boy  was  taking  books  out  of  the  safe  when  he 
arrived  at  the  office.  In  a  corner  by  the  wash-basin  one 
of  the  stenographers  stood,  fluffing  up  her  hair.  A  janitor 
dusted  the  desks  with  casual  attention. 

As  Scidmore  entered  he  noticed  a  woman  sitting  near 
the  counter.  She  rose  instantly,  lifting  her  veil,  smiling  a 
welcome  at  him.  He  crossed  over  to  her  —  it  was  Julia 
Norris.  His  heart  began  to  beat  violently,  but  the  next 


THE  FAILURE  139 

moment  he  had  recovered  himself  and  was  able  to  smile 
back  at  her  in  perfect  self-control. 

*  You  are  early/  he  said,  offering  her  his  hand. 

'  Yes,  and  I'm  in  trouble.  You  know  those  flats  I  in 
sured  last  week  —  they  burned  down  early  this  morning. 
They  tell  me  there  is  n't  a  stick  left  standing.' 
'  His  hand  fell  as  if  a  blow  had  wilted  it.  'The  flats  you 
insured  last  week  —  '  he  echoed,  sparring  for  time.  'I 
don't  believe  I  — -  understand.' 

*  Why,  did  n't  you  get  my  telephone  message?    I  'phoned 
last  Tuesday.    I  thought  I  talked  to  you.    I  was  sure  it 
was  your  voice.    Could  I  have  rung  up  the  wrong  office?' 

Her  uncertainty  steadied  him.  Unconsciously  she 
opened  a  door  of  escape.  Scidmore  laid  his  hat  on  the 
counter.  Julia  Norris  fluttered  back  to  her  seat  and  he 
sat  down  beside  her. 

'I  suppose  I've  bungled  things  again,'  she  went  on. 
'Usually  I  leave  everything  to  Mr.  Rice,  but  this  insur 
ance  matter  I  took  into  my  own  hands.  I  wanted  you  to 
have  the  business,  so  I  left  positive  instructions  with  Mr. 
Rice  to  let  me  know  when  the  next  insurance  policy  ex 
pired.  That  was  last  Friday.  I  'phoned  you  at  once.  I 
can't  imagine  —  ' 

As  she  rattled  on,  pointing  an  accusing  finger  at  herself, 
John  Scidmore  grew  surer  and  surer  of  his  next  step. 
There  was  not  the  faintest  note  of  calculation  in  his  atti 
tude;  confused  and  dazed  he  merely  followed  her  lead. 

4 And  you  never  received  any  policy?'  he  questioned. 
'Not  after  a  week?  You  must  have  thought  we  were 
rather  inattentive  —  or  slow.' 

She  shook  her  head.  '  I  forgot  the  whole  transaction  — 
until  this  morning.  Rice  'phoned  me  at  eight  o'clock.' 

'But  there  may  still  be  a  chance,'  Scidmore  suggested, 
shamed  by  the  very  ease  with  which  he  was  escaping. 


140  THE  FAILURE 

'Perhaps  another  clerk  got  the  message.  I'll  question 
them  all.  Or  —  maybe  you  rang  up  the  Falcon's  office 
direct.' 

She  laid  a  gloved  hand  on  his  arm  as  she  shrugged. 
He  shook  his  head.    '  You  can't  imagine  how  this  bothers 
me/  he  went  on.    He  began  to  feel  a  certain  boldness,  such 
as  thieves  feel  when  they  put  over  a  sharp  trick.     He 
wanted  to  prolong  the  discussion,  to  dally  with  danger. 
'To  think  that  in  trying  to  be  of  service  to  me  you  should 
have  gone  astray.    I  would  n't  have  had  it  happen  for  - 
Let  me  see,  what  was  the  amount  of  your  order?' 
'Ten  thousand  dollars.' 

'  Ten  thousand  dollars!    That's  a  lot  of  money/ 
'Yes/  she  admitted  slowly,  as  she  moved  toward  the 
door.    *  I'm  pretty  comfortable,  but  nobody  likes  to  throw 
money  into  the  street/ 

He  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets  in  an  effort  at  non 
chalance.  He  could  feel  his  temples  throbbing.  But  his 
confusion  cleared  before  Julia  Norris's  unruffled  smile, 
deepening  a  growing  sense  of  irritation.  She  was  not 
greatly  concerned,  first,  because  she  did  not  have  to  be, 
and  second,  because  her  faith  in  his  integrity  was  un 
shaken.  Her  complacency  and  trustfulness  enraged  him. 
What  was  ten  thousand  dollars  to  her? 

In  the  midst  of  his  musings,  her  voice,  curiously  remote, 
roused  him. 

'I'm  going  to  have  lunch  with  Kitty/  she  said,  almost 
gayly. 

'Lunch  with  Kitty? '  he  echoed.  Then,  floundering  with 
mingled  consternation  and  embarrassment,  he  finished, 
'Oh,  yes,  —  won't  that  be  fine!  Yes,  by  all  means  do!' 

And  yet,  unnerved  as  he  was,  he  went  through  the  con 
ventional  motions  of  courtesy,  bowing  her  to  the  door, 
pressing  her  hand  cordially,  sweeping  her  a  good-bye  with 


THE  FAILURE  141 

exaggerated  warmth.  Even  when  she  was  gone  her  unper 
turbed  smile  mocked  him.  She  did  not  have  the  slightest 
suspicion  of  his  unworthiness,  and  therein  lay  the  essence 
of  the  sudden  and  unqualified  hate  he  began  to  feel  for  her. 

John  Scidmore  questioned  all  the  clerks  as  they  entered 
the  office.  Had  any  one  received  a  telephone  message 
about  a  week  ago  from  Mrs.  Julia  Norris?  He  was  playing 
his  game  so  earnestly  that  he  would  not  have  been  sur 
prised  to  find  somebody  acknowledging  the  transaction. 
The  manager  came  in  at  ten  o'clock;  Scidmore  even  pre 
sented  the  case  to  him:  Mrs.  Julia  Norris,  a  client  of  his, 
had  telephoned  an  order  for  insurance  over  a  week  ago. 
Nobody  remembered  it.  The  property  to  be  insured  had 
burned  up.  Of  course,  Mrs.  Norris  might  have  been  mis 
taken  (she  admitted  as  much),  but  there  was  just  a 
chance  — 

The  manager,  instantly  interested,  adjusted  his  glasses. 
A  ten-thousand-dollar  line  neglected!  Incredible!  He 
began  to  investigate  personally,  calling  up  one  clerk  after 
another,  while  Scidmore  listened  like  a  highwayman, 
tempting  chance  from  a  spirit  of  sheer  bravado.  Nobody 
remembered,  even  under  the  most  searching  cross-exam 
ination.  The  private  exchange  operator,  who  was  usually 
very  keen  about  such  matters,  could  not  place  the  call. 

Then  came  a  discussion  as  to  how  to  prevent  such  a  lapse 
should  one  occur.  Scidmore  sat  at  the  manager's  desk, 
quite  the  hero  of  the  hour  —  a  very  important  personage, 
whose  ten-thousand-dollar  client  had  come  to  grief.  It 
was  years  since  he  had  figured  in  a  question  of  office  policy. 
Gradually  the  uniqueness  of  his  position  pushed  Julia 
Norris  and  her  loss  into  a  hazy  background. 

He  returned  to  his  routine  work  with  a  gay  spirit. 
Several  times  during  the  morning  the  manager  called  him 
for  further  conference  and  inquiry.  Finally  a  letter  was 


142  THE  FAILURE 

drafted  to  Mrs.  Julia  Norris,  to  the  effect  that  the  Cali 
fornia  Insurance  Brokers'  Company  regretted  exceedingly 
to  inform  her  that  upon  closer  examination  no  trace  could 
be  found  of  her  telephone  message.  They  could  only  con 
clude  that  she  inadvertently  had  rung  up  the  wrong  office. 
Inquiry  at  the  Falcon  Company's  office,  however,  devel 
oped  that  no  such  insurance  had  been  placed,  even  by  a 
rival  firm.  They  hoped  that  this  unfortunate  occurrence 

would  not  stand  in  the  way  of  other  favors  at  her  hands, 

and  so  forth. 

John  Scidmore  signed  the  letter  with  a  flourish. 

All  morning  the  fiction  of  Julia  Norris's  mistake  still 

persisted.     Why  had  she  not  taken  greater  precautions? 

The  idea  of  telephoning  in  a  line  of  insurance  and  not 

inquiring  the  name  of  the  person  who  took  the  message! 

Common  sense  would  dictate  such  a  course.    He  began  to 

feel  abused,  as  if  Julia  Norris  had  betrayed  him  in  some 

way. 


in 


It  was  not  until  John  Scidmore  had  scrambled  aboard 
the  ferryboat  on  his  way  home  and  had  seated  himself 
in  his  usual  place,  under  the  pilot-house,  that  his  inflated 
spirits  began  to  collapse.  The  afternoon  had  been  spent 
in  a  mad  rush  of  business,  —  an  avalanche  of  petty  orders 
and  details  such  as  periodically  afflicts  an  insurance  bro 
ker's  office. 

The  sense  of  security  which  had  enveloped  him  all  day 
fell  away  before  a  vague  uneasiness.  Before  an  audience, 
he  had  played  his  part  spiritedly;  without  the  spur  of 
interested  auditors  his  performance  lagged.  There  was  an 
element  of  excitement  in  serving  moral  fiction  to  unsus 
pecting  listeners,  but  hoodwinking  himself  proved  a  bore- 
some  task.  The  boldest  highwayman  had  a  cleaner  record : 


THE  FAILURE  143 

at  least  such  an  outlaw  made  bold  plays  and  took  great 
chances.  He  had  not  risked  so  much  as  his  little  finger  on 
his  enterprise,  and  his  victim's  cheek  was  still  warm  with 
the  kiss  of  betrayal.  Lies,  thievery,  murder  —  one  by  one 
these  suggestions  of  outlawry  mentally  passed  in  review 
and  sank  into  insignificance  before  this  sinister  word- 
betrayal.  In  all  the  calendar  of  human  weaknesses,  John 
Scidmore  could  recall  none  that  served  so  contemptible 
an  end  as  betrayal.  And  he,  John  Scidmore,  had  been 
guilty  of  this  crowning  meanness. 

If  the  memory  of  Julia  Norris's  confidence  stabbed  him, 
what  of  the  attitude  of  his  superiors  at  the  office?  They 
had  never  even  thought  of  questioning  him.  As  he  looked 
back  on  the  events  of  the  morning  he  was  appalled.  It 
seemed  that  all  these  years  he  had  built  up  barriers  of 
moral  responsibility  only  to  see  them  swept  away  before 
a  freshet  of  fears. 

A  tramping  of  feet  warned  him  that  the  boat  was  swing 
ing  into  the  slip.  He  rose  mechanically.  The  exertion  of 
following  the  scrambling  crowd  and  finding  himself  a  seat 
on  the  train  interrupted  his  self-accusation.  By  the  time 
he  was  comfortably  settled  again,  he  mentally  had  begun 
his  defense. 

Why  should  he  make  such  an  absurd  fuss  over  confessing 
his  fault  to  Julia  Norris?  She  was  rich;  her  husband  had 
left  her  a  cool  million.  Ten  thousand  dollars  didn't 
matter,  and  besides,  she  was  Kitty's  friend.  Had  he  the 
right  to  purchase  a  quiet  conscience  at  the  expense  of 
Kitty's  pride? 

What  had  he  given  Kitty  in  the  fifteen  years  of  their 
wedded  life?  Had  he  played  the  game  boldly  and  well? 
Did  she  hold  her  head  high  at  the  mention  of  his  name? 
No,  he  had  fallen  short  of  his  own  standards.  How  much 
more  must  he  have  fallen  short  of  her  hopes  for  him!  And 


144  THE  FAILURE 

now  he  was  lacking  the  courage  to  swallow  his  medicine. 
He  was  ready  to  whimper  and  whine  at  the  load  which 
his  own  inefficiency  had  forced  upon  his  conscience.  He 
argued  that  strong  men  made  bold  plays  and  damned  the 
consequence;  in  other  words,  they  took  a  chance.  But 
his  soul  was  tricking  itself  out  in  a  dramatic  subterfuge. 
What  he  really  had  discovered  was  something  to  excuse 
his  weakness,  and  this  something  loomed  up  conveniently 
in  the  person  of  Kitty  Scidmore,  his  wife. 

When  Scidmore  arrived  home,  he  went  directly  to  his 
room  and  closed  the  door.  The  thought  of  meeting  Kitty 
troubled  him.  But  after  he  had  slipped  on  an  old  coat  and 
freshened  up,  he  felt  better. 

At  the  dinner  table  he  noticed  a  tired,  pinched  look 
about  his  wife's  mouth.  Julia  Norris  was  every  day  as  old 
as  his  wife,  but  time  had  dealt  kindly  with  her.  Her  face 
was  still  fresh  and  rosy;  there  was  not  even  a  glint  of  gray 
in  her  hair.  Resentment  began  to  move  him,  resentment 
at  Julia  Norris,  at  her  fortune,  at  her  friendship  for  his 
wife,  at  every  detail  connected  with  his  memory  of  her. 

Kitty  began  to  talk.  Scidmore  sat  silent,  crumbling  his 
bread.  Finally  the  dread  subject  came  to  life.  Kitty 
looked  up  and  said,  — 

*  Julia  was  late  to-day,  as  usual.  Poor  dear  Julia,  what 
a  generous  soul  she  is ! ' 

Scidmore  began  to  fidget.  'Late?  How  did  that  hap 
pen?  She  left  our  office  long  before  ten  o'clock/ 

'  Oh,  but  you  don't  know  Julia !  She  did  a  thousand  and 
one  things  before  she  arrived  here.  And  such  a  disheveled 
creature  as  she  was !  And  so  full  of  apologies  and  troubles ! 
Nothing  to  speak  of  —  she  laughed  them  all  away  in  five 
minutes.' 

'  Then  she  did  n't  tell  —  ' 

'About  the  insurance?    I  should  say  she  did.    She  was 


THE  FAILURE  145 

so  worried  for  fear  you'd  be  distressed  about  it  all.  She 
admitted  that  she  was  to  blame.  But  she  knows  how  con 
scientious  you  are,  and  she  was  afraid  - 

Scidmore  impatiently  interrupted  his  wife.  *  Julia  Nor- 
ris  ought  to  have  some  business  sense,  Kitty;  upon  my 
word  she  should.  And  it  has  worried  me.  A  woman 
like  that  —  one  never  can  be  sure  of  just  what  she  does 
think.  It's  an  even  chance  that  deep  down  she  believes 
that  she  delivered  the  message  to  me,  and  that  I  neglected 

it.' 

He  could  feel  his  face  flushing  with  mingled  indignation 
and  disapproval  as  he  voiced  his  displeasure. 

Kitty  got  up  to  pour  a  glass  of  water. 

'Why,  John,'  she  half  chided,  'I'm  sure  Julia  would  n't 
be  guilty  of  such  a  thought.  You  don't  know  her  —  gen 
erous  —  impulsive.  Why,  she'd  forgive  you  for  neglecting, 
if  you  really  had  neglected  anything.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
she  said  very  decidedly,  "  If  I'd  been  dealing  with  anybody 
but  John  Scidmore,  I  do  believe  I'd  be  inconsistent  enough 
to  try  to  blame  the  other  fellow,  but  of  course  I  know  - 

'Yes,'  he  broke  in  excitedly,  'that's  just  it.     That's  the 
way  she  puts  it,  to  you.    But  such  a  remark  as  that  just 
bears  out  what  I  say  —  she's  not  altogether  satisfied.     I 
know  what  she  thinks;  I  saw  it  in  her  face  this  morning  - 
this  is  what  comes  of  trying  to  help  one's  poor  friends.9 

His  wife  stopped  pouring  water  and  laid  down  the  pitcher. 

'Nonsense.     Julia  Norris  has  perfect  faith  in  you.' 

'Why  should  she  have?'  he  persisted  hotly.  'Isn't  it 
just  as  possible  for  me  to  forget,  to  overlook  a  telephone 
message,  as  the  other  fellow?  I'm  not  infallible  any  more 
than  she  is.' 

'No,'  Kitty  returned  very  quietly.  'I  don't  think  she 
imagines  that  you  are  infallible.  But  she  knows  that  if 
you  took  her  message  and  forgot  it,  you'd  admit  it.' 


146  THE  FAILURE 

He  rallied  from  this  blow  with  a  feeling  of  fierce  an 
tagonism. 

'Well/  he  sneered  sarcastically,  'if  she's  silly  enough 
to  have  any  such  notions,  she  does  need  a  guardian!  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  I'd  conceal  my  mistakes  as  quickly  as  any 
one  else  would.' 

Kitty  began  to  laugh,  a  full-throated,  indulgent  laugh, 
that  made  him  bite  his  lips. 

'What  a  lot  of  foolish  brag  you're  indulging  in,  Johnny 
Scidmore.  Well,  after  all,  let's  forget  about  it;  Julia  her 
self  laughed  it  off.' 

He  crumpled  the  napkin  in  his  hand.  'Yes,  that's  just 
it.  She  can  laugh  over  it,  while  we  —  why,  if  we  lost  ten 
thousand  it  would  be  a  tragedy.  I  could  n't  help  think 
ing  to-day  after  she'd  left  the  office,  suppose,  just  suppose, 
I  had  received  Julia  Norris's  'phone  message  —  and  for 
gotten  it.  The  very  thought  made  me  sick  all  over.' 

He  paused,  frightened  at  the  lengths  to  which  his  un 
easiness  had  forced  him.  His  wife's  smile  gave  way  to  a 
puzzled  look  as  she  returned  very  quietly,  — 

'Do  you  really  think  it  worth  while  to  face  these  imag 
inary  situations?' 

His  resentment  flared  again  at  the  comfortable  even 
ness  of  her  tone.  'Yes,  I  do,'  he  snapped  back.  'It  helps 
one  to  exercise  one's  morals.  I  wanted  to  know  just  how 
I  would  act  in  such  an  emergency.  And  I've  found  out. 
The  very  thought  frightens  me  too  much.  I  know  that  I 
should  feel  morally  bound  to  confess,  but  I'd  never  have 
the  courage  of  my  convictions.  Now,  what  do  you  sup 
pose  you  would  advise  me  to  do  in  a  situation  like  that? 
What  would  you  tell  me  to  do?' 

Kitty  Scidmore  looked  straight  at  her  husband.  He 
dropped  his  eyes. 

'I  would  not  advise  you,  John,'  she  said,  distinctly 


THE  FAILURE  147 

He  glanced  up  at  her.    '  You  'd  not  say  a  word? ' 
She  shook  her  head.     'No,  it  wouldn't  be  necessary.' 
He  began  to  stir  his  tea.    His  hand  was  shaking,  and 
his  spoon  rattled  noisily  against  the  teacup. 


IV 


After  he  had  helped  Kitty  with  the  dishes,  John  Scid- 
more  left  the  house  for  a  walk.  It  was  a  calm,  beautiful 
night,  lit  by  a  slender  moon  hung  high  in  the  heavens  and 
stars  twinkling  cheerily.  As  he  went  along  the  dm- 
shaded  streets,  he  drew  in  deep  breaths,  striving  to  steady 
the  tumult  within  him. 

Kitty's  words  hummed  themselves  into  his  inner  con 
sciousness.  'No,  John,  it  would  n't  be  necessary.'  What 
did  she  really  mean?  Did  she  think  he  had  the  courage  to 
settle  such  a  question  decisively  —  righteously?  Did  — 
He  stopped,  turning  the  phrase  over  in  his  mind.  He  knew 
that  materially  he  had  been  a  failure.  People  called  him 
a  nice  fellow  and  let  it  go  at  that.  Was  it  possible  for  his 
wife,  the  wife  who  had  lived  so  close  to  all  his  weaknesses, 
to  glorify  him  with  so  large  a  hope?  The  thought  began  to 
thrill  him. 

He  heard  the  Old  Library  clock  on  the  University  campus 
chime  nine.  He  began  to  walk  slowly  in  the  direction  of 
the  chiming  clock.  He  was  still  undecided,  still  battling 
with  his  cowardice.  The  shrill  whistle  of  an  incoming 
train  arrested  him.  This  same  train  would  swing  back  to 
San  Francisco  in  ten  minutes.  He  retraced  his  steps.  In 
ten  minutes  —  His  legs  seemed  weighted.  He  wondered 
whether  he  would  really  catch  it. 

Standing  before  the  massive  facade  of  the  Hotel  Fair 
mont,  John  Scidmore  had  a  fleeting  hope  that  Julia  Norris 


148  THE  FAILURE 

would  not  be  at  home.  But  almost  as  instantly  he  felt  a 
desperate  need  to  clear  himself  at  once.  If  he  waited  even 
an  hour  he  could  not  vouch  for  the  outcome.  He  walked 
rapidly  into  the  lobby,  gave  his  name  to  the  hotel  clerk, 
and  awaited  the  reply  with  beating  heart.  Mrs.  Norris 
was  in.  A  bell-boy,  answering  the  clerk's  summons, 
showed  him  to  her  apartments. 

A  maid  ushered  him  into  a  reception  room.  He  sank 
into  one  of  the  luxurious  chairs,  drumming  upon  its  arms 
with  nervous  fingers. 

A  lamp  on  the  centre  table  threw  a  rich,  golden  light 
over  the  surroundings.  Thrown  over  a  chair  a  lace  scarf 
fell  with  the  undulating  softness  of  a  cascade.  Near  a 
vase  of  blood-red  roses  a  long  white  glove  had  been  dropped 
carelessly. 

He  did  not  wait  long.  Julia  Norris  came  toward  him 
with  her  usual  warm  smile,  and  a  hand  outstretched  in 
welcome.  He  stood  up.  She  was  very  simply  dressed,  in 
white,  and  a  band  of  velvet  at  her  throat  set  off  a  fine 
cameo  ringed  with  pearls,  but  her  air  of  quiet  elegance 
caught  and  held  his  resentful  eyes. 

A  fierce,  unreasoning  hate  began  to  sway  him;  for  a 
moment  his  vision  blurred. 

As  she  stepped  back  to  pick  up  her  lace  scarf  from  the 
chair,  John  Scidmore  recovered  his  poise. 

*  I  was  afraid  you  would  be  out,'  he  began  inadequately. 

She  threw  the  scarf  about  her  shoulders.     *I  was  pre 
paring  to  drift  downstairs  to  watch  the  dancing,'   she- 
answered.    *  You  caught  me  just  in  time.' 

He  stood  irresolutely,  almost  awkwardly,  watching  her 
dainty  manipulations  of  the  filmy  lace.  Then  quite  sud 
denly,  so  suddenly  as  to  surprise  even  himself,  he  blurted 
out, — 


THE  FAILURE  149 

'I  lied  to  you  this  morning.  I  took  your  order  for  insur 
ance.  I  forgot  to  place  it.' 

She  stood  for  a  moment  in  silence. 

4 What  made  you—' 

John  Scidmore  shrugged.  His  vision  was  clearing.  He 
felt  quite  calm. 

'You  suggested  the  idea  yourself.  You  were  so  ready 
to  take  the  blame.  I  suppose  it  was  self-preservation. 
I  began  to  strike  blindly  —  as  any  desperate  man  would. 
I'm  not  what  they  call  a  success  —  I  never  have  been. 
You  know  how  it  is,  some  people  —  Oh,  well !  Some  of  us 
don't  get  by,  that's  all.' 

He  turned  away.  Julia  Norris  touched  him  on  the 
shoulder. 

*  John,  can't  you  see  that  the  ten  thousand  dollars  does 
n't  matter  to  me?  But  you  and  Kitty  —  you  and  Kitty 
do  matter.' 

He  began  to  crush  his  hat  between  his  clasped  hands. 

She  threw  the  scarf  from  her  shoulders.  'Look  here, 
John  — ' 

He  stopped  her  with  an  abrupt  gesture.  'I've  won  this 
victory  for  Kitty's  sake,' "he  said.  'This  is  the  first  time 
in  my  life  I've  lived  up  to  her  hope  of  me.  If  you  were  a 
failure  you'd  realize  how  much  that  means.' 

She  was  standing  by  the  vase  of  roses,  scattering  petals 
with  ruthless  fingers.  She  crossed  over  to  him  and  put 
both  her  hands  in  his. 

'You're  not  a  failure,  John  Scidmore,'  she  said  simply. 

The  rose-petals  were  dropping  in  a  steady  shower  on 
the  table.  He  saw  them  lying  lightly  on  the  white  glove. 
He  felt  a  great  relief  as  he  put  his  clenched  hand  to  his 
eyes. 


150  THE  FAILURE 


As  John  Scidmore  rode  home  he  felt  desperately  tired. 
He  could  not  remember  a  day  which  had  seemed  longer. 

He  dragged  up  the  elm-shaded  street,  down  which  he 
had  whistled  his  confident  way  twelve  hours  before,  a 
shuffling,  ineffectual  figure.  As  he  opened  the  front  door 
his  hand  shook. 

He  lingered  in  the  hall,  hanging  his  hat  with  unnecessary 
care,  twisting  his  necktie  into  shape,  smoothing  the  thin 
wisps  of  hair  about  his  temples. 

He  found  Kitty  in  the  living-room.  A  tiny  fire  crackled 
in  the  grate.  Standing  in  the  doorway  he  watched  the 
needle  which  Kitty  deftly  plied  slipping  about  its  task 
with  fascinating  gleams.  Her  face  was  happily  flushed 
and  she  was  humming  softly  to  herself.  The  elegant 
memory  of  Julia  Norris  rose  before  him.  He  saw  again 
the  golden  shower  of  light  from  the  huge  table-lamp,  the 
vase  of  American  Beauty  roses,  the  lace  scarf  thrown  care 
lessly  across  a  brocade  chair.  He  pressed  his  lips  together 
and  entered  the  room. 

Kitty  looked  up. 

He  stopped  short.    'Something  new?'  he  ventured. 

She  gave  a  little  laugh.  'New?  I  should  say  not.  Just 
freshening  up  a  bit  for  to-morrow.' 

'To-morrow?'  he  echoed  dully.  'What's  on  for  to 
morrow?' 

'Guest  day  at  the  club.  Mrs.  Wiley  has  asked  me  to 
pour  tea.  What  kept  you  out  so  late,  Johnny?' 

He  crossed  over  to  the  fire,  pulling  his  easy  chair  into 
place. 

'I  went  over  to  the  city  —  to  see  Julia  Norris.' 

He  stood  a  moment,  undecided,  his  back  turned  toward 
Kitty,  his  hand  upon  the  chair.  He  was  waiting  for  Kitty 


THE  FAILURE  151 

to  question  him.  Finding  that  she  did  not  answer,  he 
turned  and  looked  at  her.  She  was  intent  on  her  sewing, 
but  he  fancied  that  the  flush  of  happiness  suddenly  had 
fled  her  cheeks. 

*  I  went  over  to  see  Julia  Norris,'  he  repeated  desperately. 
'You  said  your  advice  wouldn't  be  necessary.' 

He  sank  into  a  chair.  Across  the  room  he  heard  the 
monotonous  ticking  of  a  clock. 

He  was  wondering  what  Kitty  would  say.  Of  course 
she  understood;  the  whiteness  of  her  face  told  him  that 
her  feminine  intuition  had  bridged  the  gaps  in  his  explana 
tion.  He  began  to  have  a  terror  lest  she  would  come  up 
to  him,  or  speak  —  perhaps  even  weep.  The  fire  in  the 
grate  flared  up  suddenly,  turned  faintly  blue,  and  died. 
Still  Kitty  said  nothing;  still  the  clock  ticked  rhythmically. 

He  leaned  back,  closed  his  eyes,  and  drew  a  long  breath. 
Kitty  was  stirring.  She  came  over  and  dropped  gently 
before  the  fire,  leaning  her  head  against  him. 

*I  forgot  to  tell  you,'  she  said  slowly.  *I  asked  Julia 
Norris  over  for  Sunday  dinner.  She's  so  awfully  stuffed 
up  in  that  horrible  hotel.' 

Her  bravery  smote  him  more  than  tears  could  have.  He 
did  not  answer,  but  he  just  put  out  his  hand  and  touched 
her  hair  caressingly,  as  she  finished,  — 

'It's  very  grand,  I  know,  and  all  that.  But,  after  all, 
it  is  n't  home,  Johnny,  is  it?' 


BUSINESS  IS  BUSINESS 

BY   HENRY    SEIDEL   CANBY 


Six  hours  on  the  train  had  nearly  exhausted  Joseph  Car- 
gan.  He  had  read  all  the  available  magazines,  looked  up 
his  connections  twice  in  the  railway  guide,  and  even  gazed 
for  an  hour  out  of  the  window.  But  there  were  only  woods 
and  farms  to  be  seen,  scarcely  a  bill-board,  and  no  auto 
mobiles.  He  dropped  his  cigar  wearily  into  the  spittoon 
by  his  chair  in  the  club  car  and  relapsed  into  lethargy. 
With  dull  iteration  he  ran  over  the  plans  for  the  deal  in 
prairie  land  that  he  hoped  to  put  through  to-morrow,  and 
guessed  lazily  at  whether  $6000  would  purchase  the  tract  of 
which  they  had  written  him.  He  thought  of  his  wife,  and 
hoped  that  his  telegram  would  be  telephoned  over  to  the 
Runkles'  so  that  she  might  meet  him  at  the  station  with 
the  clean  shirt  he  had  asked  for.  Afterwards  he  cut  his 
nails,  yawned  loudly,  and  was  just  going  to  sleep  when 
they  stopped  at  Joline  and  a  boy  came  in  with  papers. 

Cargan  turned  first,  as  usual,  to  the  stock-market  re 
ports.  There  were  only  two  items  of  interest  since  he  had 
left  the  tape.  Montana  Pacific  had  gone  off  a  little  more. 
But  200  shares  of  Benningham  Common  had  sold  at  17,  a 
drop  of  ten  points!  His  eye  caught  an  explanatory  note: 
the  dividend  on  the  preferred  had  been  cut;  the  surplus 
was  heavily  reduced.  His  mind,  searching  rapidly  over 
their  business,  fixed  upon  two  marginal  accounts  —  Jim 
Smith's  and  Waldron's.  In  each  case  the  collateral  de 
posited  had  already  been  insufficient.  Drawing  out  his 


BUSINESS  IS  BUSINESS  153 

note-book  he  swiftly  figured.  'That  old  gambler  Smith's 
always  on  the  edge/  he  reflected.  *  We  can  hold  him  a  little 
longer.  Gotta  sell  Waldron  out.  Must  have  made  a 
thousand  dollars  out  of  that  account  first  and  last.  Too 
bad.'  A  momentary  sense  of  Waldron's  calamity  swept 
over  him,  but  quickly  evaporated.  'Business  is  business/ 
he  thought,  and  remembered,  with  a  little  angry  satisfac 
tion,  Anita  Waldron's  coming-out  dance  and  how  the 
Runkles,  who  were  invited,  kept  talking  about  it  all  win 
ter.  'Old  Waldron  won't  be  so  darn  particular  next  year/ 

As  the  train  pulled  into  his  home  town  he  hurried  out 
upon  the  station  platform,  and  saw  with  pride  and  pleas 
ure  that  his  wife  was  just  stepping  out  of  the  Runkles' 
motor.  Looking  about  to  see  who  might  be  there  to  note 
the  company  she  was  keeping,  his  eye  feU  on  a  tall  and 
stooping  gentleman  with  a  trimmed  beard  and  eyeglasses, 
who  was  searching  with  weary  eyes  the  train  windows;  but 
even  while  he  frowned  at  the  recognition,  his  wife  had 
seized  him  by  the  shoulder,  caroling,  '  Hello,  Jimmy.  Give 
me  a  kiss,  dear,  and  take  your  old  shirt/  She  was  a  grace 
ful  woman,  stiffened  by  an  obvious  corset,  and  faintly 
powdered.  A  long  yellow  feather  dangled  from  her  orange 
hat,  big  pearls  were  set  in  her  ears,  and  her  shoe-buckles 
glittered  as  she  walked. 

He  kissed  her  admiringly.  '  Say,  Martha,  you  look  great/ 
he  chuckled.  '  I  hate  to  have  to  go  right  on.  You  tell  the 
kids  I'll  bring  'em  something  when  I  get  back/ 

The  train  was  starting;  indeed  he  had  just  time  to  dash 
up  the  steps  of  his  car.  'Good-bye,  dear/  she  caroled. 
'Good-bye,  dee-ar/  hummed  the  brakeman,  and  slammed 
down  the  swinging  floor  of  the  vestibule.  Cargan  was  al 
ready  balancing  himself  along  the  corridor  of  the  club  car. 
A  lurch  of  the  train  swung  him  heavily  out  among  the 
chairs;  to  save  himself  he  caught  a  shoulder  and  dropped 


154  BUSINESS  IS  BUSINESS 

into  a  seat.  His  neighbor  had  but  just  sat  down.  It  was 
Waldron. 

They  shook  hands  as  if  nothing  were  in  the  air,  and  then 
compared  watches  to  see  if  the  train  were  on  time.  This 
done,  Waldron  took  off  his  glasses,  swung  them  on  their 
black  cord,  and  began  to  polish  them  nervously,  blinking 
with  short-sighted  eyes  into  the  space  that  hurried  past  the 
car  windows.  Cargan  offered  him  a  cigar,  but  he  put  it 
aside  quickly. 

'No,  thank  you;  no,  thank  you  —  Well  —  they  cut  the 
dividend.'  He  looked  at  Cargan  with  a  wan  smile. 
'  What'll  I  do,  Cargan?  They  told  me  I'd  find  you  on  the 
train,  and  I  thought  I'd  ask  your  advice.' 

Cargan  was  relieved.  'Sell,  Mr.  W^aldron/  he  answered 
earnestly,  'sell  right  off.  That  Brogan  crowd's  runnin'  the 
company  now,  and  they're  no  good,  sell  quick.' 

Waldron  looked  at  him  in  doubt.  '  How  much  do  I  lose  ? ' 
he  asked  feebly. 

'  'Bout  six  thousand ' —  against  his  will  Cargan  made  the 
tone  apologetic.  'Say,  put  up  only  five  thousand  more 
collateral  and  we'll  carry  you  till  better  luck.' 

The  old  man  blinked  rapidly,  then  conquered  his  pride. 
With  punctilious  care  he  unbuttoned  his  gray  cutaway, 
took  out  a  wallet  from  under  the  button  of  the  Society  of 
Colonial  Wars,  drew  forth  a  sheet  of  note  paper,  and  with 
a  pencil  inscribed  a  broad  O.  'There's  my  collateral,  Mr. 
Cargan,'  he  said  whimsically. 

He  was  so  helpless,  and  so  elegant  in  his  helplessness, 
that  the  bully  awoke  in  Cargan.  With  an  effort  he  broke 
through  the  nervous  deference  with  which  Waldron  always 
inspired  him  and  spoke  roughly :  — 

'We  don't  do  business  without  either  collateral  or  cash, 
Waldron.' 

The  gentleman  put  his  wallet  back  hurriedly  as  if  some 


BUSINESS  IS  BUSINESS  155 

one  had  laughed  at  it,  and  cast  a  quick,  hurt  look  at  his 
broker. 

*  You  have  n't  been  thinking  of  selling  me  out  —  after 
all  the  business  I've  given  you?' 

Cargan  nodded. 

Incredulity,  horror,  resolve,  passed  over  Waldron's  face. 
*  You  cannot !  It's  impossible ! '  he  said  firmly. 

The  assertion  in  his  tone  was  irritating.  *  What's  goin' 
to  stop  us?'  Cargan  asked  coolly;  shoved  his  hands  into  his 
pockets,  and  puffed  clouds  from  his  cigar. 

Different  worlds  of  imagination  revolved  in  the  two 
men's  minds .  Theophilus  Waldron  thought  of  the  children, 
and  of  his  father  the  governor,  and  of  the  family  pride. 
Sudden  poverty  was  as  bad  as  disgrace.  'I  did  n't  mean 
it  that  way/  he  answered  hurriedly.  'I'm  in  temporary 
difficulties.  My  house  is  mortgaged.  I've  borrowed  money 
from  my  wife  —  and  other  places.'  —  He  was  too  proud 
to  add,  'This  is  confidential.'  —  'My  boy's  just  entered 
college,  my  girl's  just  come  out.  It  is  n't  just  the  money — 
a  gush  of  emotion  reddened  his  face  —  'You've  got  to  pull 
me  through,  Cargan.  It's  impossible;  it's  out  of  the  ques 
tion  for  me  to  break  now ! ' 

But  Cargan  was  remembering  how  he  lost  his  job  in  the 
department  store  and  could  n't  pay  the  rent.  When  he 
was  kicked  out,  nobody  said  it  was  impossible!  Nobody 
said  it  was  impossible  when  they  went  into  the  top  of  a 
tenement!  The  contrast  made  him  bitter;  but  it  was  the 
thought  that  he  had  never  felt  it  to  be  impossible,  the  in 
escapable  inferiority  always  forced  upon  him  in  the  pres 
ence  of  Waldron,  which  roused  his  temper. 

'Business  is  business,  Mr.  Waldron/  he  said  curtly. 
'  Ab-so-lute-ly,  we  won't  take  the  risk/ 

They  were  rattling  through  coal-sheds  and  grain-elevators 


156  BUSINESS  IS  BUSINESS 

at  the  edge  of  a  town.  Waldron  got  up  stiffly  and  care 
fully  brushed  the  cinders  from  his  coat. 

'This  is  Bloomfield,  I  think,'  he  said  coldly.  'I'm  meet 
ing  my  family  here.  Mr.  Cargan,  there  are  considerations 
above  business.'  His  voice  failed  a  little.  'This  is  a  mat 
ter  of  life  and  death.' 

Cargan  had  heard  that  bluff  before.  'What  d'  you 
mean?'  he  grunted. 

Mr.  Waldron  was  staring  fixedly  out  of  the  window. 
' I  mean,'  he  faltered,  'that  I  may  not  be  able  to  stand  up 
under  it.'  And  then  his  voice  resumed  its  desperate  cer 
tainty.  '  I  mean,  sir,  that  what  you  propose  is  impossible. 
I  mean  that  ab-so-lute-ly  you  cannot  sell  me  out/ 

He  bowed  and  felt  his  way  down  the  corridor. 

'I  can't,  can't  I!'  Cargan  flung  after  him;  then  jerked 
a  sheet  from  the  telegraph  pad  in  the  rack  beside  him 
and  wrote:  'Sell  out  Waldron  at  noon  to-morrow  unless 
5000  collateral.'  '  Something'll  drop  for  you,  old  boy,'  he 
growled,  addressed  the  telegram  to  his  partner,  and  gave 
it  to  the  porter. 

Outside,  Cargan  heard  a  burst  of  merry  voices  and  saw 
Waldron  hurried  away  by  two  laughing  girls  to  an  auto 
mobile  waiting  with  a  trunk  strapped  behind  it.  Mrs. 
Waldron  followed.  She  was  a  stiff  woman,  a  little  faded, 
quietly  dressed.  Her  face  was  troubled,  and  when  they 
reached  the  motor,  she  caught  her  husband's  elbow  gently 
as  if  to  ask  him  something,  but  he  merely  nodded  and 
turned  her  glance  toward  Cargan's  window.  She  bowed 
and  smiled  very  sweetly  in  his  direction,  and  Cargan 
smiled  sourly  in  return.  Then  the  children  hustled  the  old 
folks  into  the  tonneau  and  they  were  off,  just  as  the  train 
started. 

Cargan  felt  hardly  used.  'A  man's  got  to  look  out  for 
himself,'  he  thought  angrily.  '  Business  is  business  — 


BUSINESS  IS  BUSINESS  157 

that's  the  thing  for  him  to  remember.  "  It's  impossible'' ! ' 
Nevertheless,  in  self-defense  he  began  to  calculate  what  it 
might  have  cost  to  carry  the  account,  until  the  appalling 
magnitude  of  the  risk  shut  off  the  discussion.  *  The  darned 
old  self-confident  aristocrat ! '  he  murmured,  working  him 
self  up  into  a  fury.  *  Thinks  he  can  bluff  me,  but  he'll  find 
out  what's  impossible,  believe  me! '  Then  he  dispelled  his 
irritation  by  a  cocktail  and  hurried  into  the  diner. 

He  snored  in  his  berth  while  the  train  ran  out  farther 
and  farther  upon  the  great  Kansas  plain;  slept  while  signs 
of  culture  disappeared  one  by  one,  and  arose  in  the  midst 
of  an  endless,  unfamiliar  world  of  grass.  When  he  sat 
down  in  the  diner  for  his  morning  meal,  the  great  wheel  of 
the  horizon  rimmed  round  his  little  train  without  a  notch 
on  the  perfect  circle;  over  night  the  outer  world  had 
changed,  but  he  was  absorbed  in  fitting  his  choices  into  a 
sixty-cent  breakfast. 

The  train  stopped  quickly  and  firmly,  and  lay  dead  upon 
the  prairie. 

*  Eccentrics  or  hot-box/  said  the  man  who  jumped  off 
the  step  beside  him.    *  Nothing  much  else  goes  wrong  with 
an  engine  nowadays.    What  is  it,  Bill? ' 

And  the  conductor,  looking  about  him  to  see  that  no 
more  passengers  were  within  earshot,  answered,  'Eccen 
trics  —  two  hours  anyway/ 

Cargan  flung  his  cigarette  on  the  ground.  '  I'll  miss  my 
connection  at  Hay  Junction ! '  he  protested.  *  I've  gotta  be 
in  Hamden  this  afternoon.' 

*  Walk  then,'  said  the  conductor  stolidly.     *  It's  only  ten 
miles  from  here  straight  across.' 

There  was  no  house  in  sight,  no  road,  nothing  but  the 
dead  train,  the  new  land  of  endless  shimmering  prairies, 
and,  beyond  the  ditch,  a  single  horseman  looking  curiously 


158  BUSINESS  IS  BUSINESS 

at  the  long  cars  and  the  faces  strained  against  the  glass  of 
the  windows. 

'Say,  you!'  Cargan  called,  'can  you  get  an  auto  any 
where  here?' 

The  figure  looked  at  him  impassively,  then  shook  its 
dusty  head. 

'Or  a  team?' 

It  shook  its  head  again. 

'  Or  a  —  horse? '  Cargan  hesitated.  He  had  never  ridden 
a  horse. 

A  sudden  gleaming  idea  shot  across  the  man's  solemn 
features.  He  slid  off  his  pony  and  led  him  nearer  the  ditch. 

'  Say '  —  he  suddenly  became  voluble,  —  '  you  said  you 
wanted  to  get  to  Hamden.  Well,  if  you'll  make  it  five 
plunks,  and  give  me  your  ticket,  you  can  take  this  horse, 
an'  I'll  go  round  by  train.  Say  —  do  you  want  to? ' 

Cargan  was  tempted.    All  you  had  to  do  was  to  stick  on. 

4 What '11  I  do  with  my  suit-case?' 

'  Gimme  it  to  take  for  you.  I  guess  it  ain't  worth  more'n 
my  horse.' 

ii 

They  helped  him  on,  and  pointed  out  the  dim  line  of 
telephone  poles  which  marked  a  road  a  mile  beyond.  He 
walked  his  horse  onward,  not  daring  to  trot,  struck  the 
dusty  highway,  rode  on  over  an  imperceptible  roll  of  the 
plains,  and  was  alone  on  a  vast  bare  earth,  naked  as  when 
born  from  the  womb  of  time. 

Plover  swung  up  before  him  with  melancholy  cries.  A 
soft  haze  rose  from  the  plains.  They  grew  more  vast, 
more  endless.  In  the  north,  a  white  cloud-mass  piled  it 
self  up  and  up  until  it  seemed  as  if  it  might  topple  over 
upon  the  flat  world  beneath.  He  had  never  before  looked 
at  the  country  except  as  real  estate,  never  seen  the  plains, 


BUSINESS  IS  BUSINESS  159 

and  a  curious  new  sense  of  the  bigness  of  the  earth  op 
pressed  him.  He  felt  very  small  and  very  mean.  The 
humiliation  of  his  spirits  was  a  novel  feeling  and  an  un 
pleasant  one;  he  tried  to  hum  it  away:  — 

'  Just  wait  till  I  strike  Broadway 
And  watch  me  with  the  girls, 
For  I'm  the  man  that  invented  it  — 
The  hair  that  always  curls.' 

His  harsh  voice  in  the  stillness  was  ridiculous, —  even  to 
him,  —  but  when  he  stopped  singing,  the  silence  flowed 
over  him  as  a  stream  that  had  been  held  back.  The  sky 
was  enormous ;  he  was  only  a  speck  on  the  vast  floor.  As 
he  plodded  on  and  on  and  on  through  the  dust,  he  began 
to  grow  dizzy  from  the  glare  and  the  heat.  He  could  not 
collect  his  thoughts  for  business.  A  curious  sense  of 
weakened  identity  perplexed  him,  and  his  head  was  full 
of  drifting  pictures  —  Waldron's  face  among  them.  That 
face  lingered.  He  saw  him  looking  vaguely  out  of  the  car 
window  —  saying  that  he  could  n't  stand  up  under  it  — 
that  it  was  *  impossible.'  He  wondered  if  it  was  a  bluff, 
after  all.  The  face  faded  away  leaving  a  dull  pity  behind 
it,  a  struggling  remorse.  Cargan  shifted  uneasily  in  his 
saddle,  and  tried  to  think  of  business.  But  instead  of 
business  queer  childish  ideas  began  floating  in  and  out  of 
his  mind,  accompanied  by  words  remembered  from  Sun 
days  in  his  boyhood.  He  was  alone  with  God.  God  saw 
into  his  heart.  A  little  nervous  shiver  ran  over  him,  and 
when  he  checked  it  with  a  laugh  there  followed  a  wave  of 
superstitious  emotion. 

A  low  wave  of  the  prairies  had  hidden  from  him  a  little 
house  and  barn  standing  crudely  new  against  the  sky  in 
the  distance.  Tiny  figures  were  moving  behind  the  build 
ings,  and  a  dust-cloud  rose  from  the  highway  in  front. 


160  BUSINESS  IS  BUSINESS 

Cargan  suddenly  became  conscious  of  his  appearance  — 
his  serge  suit,  his  straw  hat,  his  awkward  seat  in  the  saddle. 
The  loneliness  of  the  plains  had  shaken  his  usual  self-as 
surance. 

*  Maybe  they'll  think  I  stole  this  horse.  Guess  I'll  go 
round,'  he  said  aloud.  He  jerked  his  steed  from  the  road 
into  the  grass,  and  urged  him  into  a  trot.  Instantly  he 
found  himself  beaten  and  jolted  like  a  ship  in  a  tempest. 
He  lost  a  stirrup,  he  slipped  sidewise  on  the  saddle;  then 
in  a  panicky  fright  he  began  to  shout  and  saw  at  the  bit. 
Frightened  by  the  voice  and  the  thunder  of  hoofs,  a  chapar 
ral  cock  darted  from  beneath  the  horse's  nose.  It  was 
enough  to  make  the  beast  swerve,  then  toss  his  head,  and 
in  a  panic  madder  than  his  rider's,  break  into  a  run  and 
dash  unrestrainably  onward.  Cargan,  numb  with  fright, 
leaned  over  his  neck  and  wound  his  hands  in  the  mane. 
The  speed  sickened  him.  The  flat  earth  swung  beneath, 
the  sky  swam  dizzily.  He  dared  not  pull  on  the  reins; 
he  could  only  hold  on  grimly  and  shut  his  eyes.  Once  he 
slipped,  and,  screaming,  saw  for  an  instant  a  blur  of  grass 
before  he  could  pull  himself  back  to  safety.  And  then  the 
speed  increased,  the  sweaty  shoulders  labored  beneath 
him,  and  his  senses  whirled. 

He  did  not  note  how  far  they  ran;  but  at  last  came  a 
slower  motion,  a  gallop,  and  then  a  trot.  Weak  from  ex 
haustion,  he  was  bumped  from  the  saddle,  and  found  him 
self  clutching  and  kicking  with  both  arms  around  his  horse's 
neck.  Flinging  himself  outward,  he  rolled  over  on  the 
soft  ground,  and  lay  groaning  on  the  prairie.  The  well- 
trained  horse  stopped  and  began  to  graze;  he  too  was 
quivering  with  fatigue,  but  his  fright  was  over.  The  sun 
was  burning  near  the  zenith.  The  world  again  was  empty, 
and  this  time  there  was  no  road. 

Cargan  was  lost. 


BUSINESS  IS  BUSINESS  161 

When  he  recovered  a  little,  he  caught  the  horse,  and,  too 
shaken  to  mount  him,  limped  on,  leading  him  by  the  bridle, 
in  what  direction  he  did  not  know.  Pangs  of  hunger  and 
faintness  assailed  him.  The  awful  loneliness  chilled  him 
through  in  spite  of  the  blaze  of  heat  and  light.  He  remem 
bered  stories  of  men  who  had  wandered  on  the  prairie, 
round  and  round  in  an  endless  circle,  until  they  had  gone 
crazy  and  blown  out  their  brains.  A  profound  pity  for 
himself  stirred  him.  Never  had  he  so  felt  the  need  of 
humanity,  of  human  aid.  He  would  have  given  a  hundred 
dollars  to  be  walking  up  Main  Street,  with  the  boys  calling 
to  him  from  Rooney's  cigar  store,  and  the  world  where  it 
was  yesterday. 

Just  in  front  a  little  calf  stumbled  to  its  feet  and  ran 
toward  them,  mooing  piteously.  It,  too,  was  lost.  Cargan 
stroked  its  nostrils,  and  a  sympathy  for  all  suffering  things 
flowed  through  his  heart.  He  thought  with  a  shudder  of 
Waldron,  pacing  somewhere  like  himself,  alone,  lost,  help 
less,  his  pride  gone.  In  his  awakened  imagination,  he  saw 
him  wandering  nearer  and  nearer  the  fatal  act.  *  He'll 
shoot  himself.  I  ought  to  done  something,'  he  whispered, 
with  a  sudden  rush  of  unfamiliar  emotion;  and  all  the 
sentiment  in  his  nature  heaved  and  struggled  to  the  light. 

A  cow  lowed  somewhere  beyond  them;  his  horse  pricked 
up  his  ears,  and  the  calf  ambled  off  in  the  direction  of  the 
sound.  Cargan  limped  after  hurriedly,  leading  his  horse. 
A  hundred  yards  brought  them  to  the  edge  of  a  slight 
bowl  in  the  plains,  with  a  little  moisture  around  which 
pewees  were  flying,  and  his  heart  leaped  to  see  beside  it  a 
tiny  house  of  unpainted  boards.  Wires  stretched  from  one 
window,  along  the  depression  which  led  westward,  until 
they  disappeared  in  the  endless  horizon ;  and,  as  he  paused 
to  survey,  a  sharp  bell  rang. 

*  Hello,  is  that  Annie? '  came  faintly  across  the  silence. 


162  BUSINESS  IS  BUSINESS 

He  looked  at  his  watch,  and  saw  that  it  was  only  eleven. 
'  I'll  talk  to  Casey  about  Waldron,'  he  said  guiltily.  Relief 
for  his  escape,  and  still  more  the  hush  of  that  enormous 
plain,  the  solemnity  of  the  great  and  shining  sky,  filled  him 
with  high  and  noble  thoughts. 

'Say,  is  Hamden  near  here? '  he  asked  of  a  slim  woman  in 
a  gingham  dress  who  appeared  at  the  door. 

She  nodded. 

'And  say,  can  I  use  your  telephone?' 

She  hesitated,  looking  him  over,  then  motioned  him 
incuriously  to  the  stool  behind  the  pine  table.  Solitude 
seemed  to  have  made  her  unready  of  speech.  He  called 
Cargan  &  Casey,  then  waited,  fidgeting.  Silence  invaded 
the  little  kitchen.  The  clock  ticked  in  a  hush;  the  chickens 
droned  in  whispers;  the  woman  herself  worked  over  the 
stove  with  slow  fingers,  moving  the  kettles  gently.  Car 
gan  &  Casey  were  'busy.'  He  fumed  for  an  instant,  then 
gave  his  own  home  number. 

'It's  Jim,'  he  said,  and  heard  his  wife's  carol  of  surprise. 
He  could  see  her  tiptoeing  at  their  telephone.  'I'm  all 
right,'  he  shouted  in  response  to  her  eager  words;  and  the 
thought  of  their  little  sitting-room,  and  the  kids  playing 
behind  her,  warmed  his  blood.  'I  got  run  away  with  on 
the  plains,  but  I'm  all  right  — '  Her  frightened  ejacula 
tion  thrilled  him  with  loving  pride  —  'honest  I  am.'  And 
then  suddenly  a  wave  of  generous  emotion  mounted  to 
his  head.  'Martha,'  he  called  quickly, —  'tell  Casey  not 
to  sell  out  Waldron  —  tell  him  right  away.  I'll  explain 
to-morrow.' 

The  connection  roared  and  failed.  He  hung  up  the  in 
strument.  The  quiet  room,  the  gently  moving  woman, 
the  immensity  without,  rushed  back  on  his  sight.  Exhil 
arated,  clear-hearted,  looking  heaven  in  the  face,  he  asked 


BUSINESS  IS  BUSINESS  163 

the  necessary  questions,  mounted  his  horse,  and  pushed 
onward. 

Hamden  was  already  a  blotch  upon  the  horizon.  'Say, 
it's  great  to  get  into  a  big  country, '  he  murmured,  lifted 
his  bare  head  to  the  free  air,  and  in  a  curious  exaltation  of 
mind  rode  on  dreamily.  He  noticed  the  flowers  in  the 
coarse  grass,  watched  the  wild  doves  flying  with  their 
quick,  strong  wing-beats,  and  swung  his  eye  joyfully  around 
the  blue  horizons  that  receded  until  one  felt  the  curve  and 
pitch  of  the  world. 

The  mood  lasted  until  Cargan  reached  the  first  straggling 
houses  of  the  village  street,  so  that  he  entered  upon  the 
rutty  highway  between  dirt  sidewalks  with  regret,  as  one 
whose  holiday  was  ending.  He  scarcely  noticed  the 
loiterers  who  stared  at  him,  or  thought  of  his  streaked  face, 
his  trousers  split  at  the  knee,  his  hat  lost  on  the  wild  ride. 

But  as  he  plodded  onward  the  atmosphere  of  town  had 
its  effect.  His  eye  began  to  take  note  of  the  size  of  the 
shops  glittering  under  their  false  fronts,  the  new  houses 
behind  rows  of  stiff  young  trees,  the  number  and  make  of 
automobiles.  His  subconsciousness  grasped  the  financial 
level  of  Hamden,  although  his  thoughts  were  still  in  the 
wide  spaces  of  the  plains.  A  boy  ran  out  from  the  side 
walk  to  sell  him  a  paper.  He  stuck  it  in  his  side  pocket, 
and  suddenly  began  to  feel  like  a  man  of  this  world  again. 

'Say,  sonny,'  he  called;  'who  sells  land  in  this  burg?  — 
Dubell  —  John  Dubell?  —  Thanks.' 

He  went  more  and  more  slowly. 

A  drug-store,  blazing  with  marble  and  onyx  in  the  after 
noon  sun,  made  Cargan's  dry  throat  wrinkle  with  thirst. 
He  pulled  his  horse  toward  that  side  of  the  street.  There 
was  a  row  of  customers  along  the  soda-water  counter,  and 
through  the  open  windows  came  scraps  of  conversation: 
two  boys  were  teasing  each  other  about  a  girl;  a  group  of 


164  BUSINESS  IS  BUSINESS 

men  were  talking  auctions,  options,  prices,  real  estate.  He 
drank  their  talk  in  greedily,  with  a  pang  of  homesickness 
and  a  rush  of  returning  common  sense.  Dismounting 
stiffly,  he  tied  his  horse,  and  stood  for  an  instant  on  the 
cement  pavement,  feeling  his  dirt  and  tatters,  wondering  if 
they  would  throw  him  out  for  a  bum.  Then  he  slid  inside 
the  door,  and  ordered  a  chocolate  soda. 

The  clerk  was  reading  the  paper  while  he  juggled  the 
milk-shakes.  Cargan,  carefully  concealing  his  torn  trou 
sers,  climbed  a  stool,  and  began  to  look  back  upon  the 
vagaries  of  the  day  with  sullen  wonder.  He  brushed  fur 
tively  at  the  caked  dust  on  his  legs,  remembering,  irri 
tably,  the  elegance  of  Waldron,  whom  he  had  saved.  In 
the  mirror  of  the  soda  fountain  he  saw  himself,  torn,  dirty, 
shrinking,  and  the  sight  filled  him  with  disgust  and  anger. 
He  felt  as  ridiculous  as  when  he  had  come  out  with  a  glass 
too  much  from  the  Stoneham  bar,  and  tripped  over  the 
steps  of  the  main  entrance.  *  Gimme  a  cigar/  he  called  to 
the  boy  at  the  magazine  counter;  bit  off  the  end,  lit  it,  and 
began  to  think  business. 

The  clerk,  swirling  a  cataract  of  milk  from  glass  to  glass, 
revealed  the  inner  sheet  of  the  paper  propped  before  him. 
Cargan  read  beneath  his  arm  the  full-page  advertisement 
of  a  land  sale  —  the  land  sale  he  had  come  through  all  this 
tomfoolery  to  reach.  His  eyes  bulged  as  he  saw  that  they 
were  going  to  throw  a  thousand  acres  on  the  market. 
*  Good  gosh,'  he  gulped  inwardly,  *  what  a  chance ! '  It  was 
a  sure  thing  for  the  man  with  the  money. 

The  last  of  his  fine  sentiments  evaporated.  Except  for 
Waldron  he  could  have  scooped  it  all  in;  but  now  four 
hundred  was  all  he  dared  touch,  —  and  perhaps  not  that. 
Raging  against  his  softness  back  there  on  the  plains,  which 
seemed  a  hardly  recognizable  world,  he  ground  his  teeth, 


BUSINESS  IS  BUSINESS  165 

and  coughed  and  choked  over  his  soda.  Soft-headed  don 
key!  The  reaction  was  complete. 

Suddenly  a  little  thought  no  bigger  than  a  minute  rose 
in  one  corner  of  his  brain,  and  spread,  and  spread.  He 
looked  furtively  at  the  clock  over  the  clerk's  head,  and  saw 
that  it  was  only  half -past  two.  With  guilty  deliberation 
he  rose  and  walked  slowly  toward  the  door  of  the  tele 
phone  booth,  keeping  back  from  full  consciousness  just 
what  he  was  about  to  do.  Then  he  slammed  himself 
within,  and  shouted  Casey's  address  to  the  operator.  As 
he  waited,  his  wrath  mounted.  'What  in  heck  was  the 
matter  with  me  anyway!'  He  smoked  furiously  in  the 
stifling  box. 

'Go  ahead,'  said  the  operator,  —  and,  at  the  word,  'Hey 
there,  Casey,'  he  yelled  at  the  dim  voice  on  the  wires, 
'I've  gotta  have  five  thousand  quick!  Sell  that  Ben- 
ningham  Common  —  yes,  Waldron's.'  At  the  name  his 
anger  broke  loose.  '  The  old  high-brow  tried  to  bluff  me. 
What ! !  —  The  connection  failed  and  left  him  gasping. 

'  What !  Sold  it !  He  told  you  to !  —  No,  I  dunno  any 
thing  about  a  court  decision.  Up  15  points  on  a  merger! 
Well  what  do  you  think  — '  He  gulped  down  the  sudden 
reversal  and  felt  for  words.  'Say,  tell  him,  — '  he  licked 
his  lips,  —  'tell  him  I'm  sure  glad  I  saved  him.  I'm  sure 
glad.' 

The  wires  roared  again,  —  and  Cargan,  putting  down 
the  receiver  grinned  shamefacedly  into  the  dirty  mirror. 
But  gradually  a  sense  of  conscious  virtue  began  to  trickle 
pleasantly  through  his  veins.  'I'm  sure  glad/  he  repeated 
more  vigorously;  'carryin'  him  to-day  was  what  did  it.' 
A  vision  of  Mrs.  Waldron's  happy  face  rose  to  bless  him; 
the  exhilaration  of  the  morning  coursed  back  into  his 
heart,  with  a  comfortable  feeling  of  good  business  about 
it.  He  felt  better  and  better.  From  somewhere  a  saying 


166  BUSINESS  IS  BUSINESS 

floated  into  his  head:  *  Doing  good  unto  others  is  the  only 
happiness.'  'By  heck,  that's  true/  he  commented  aloud, 
and  sat  smoking  peacefully,  his  mind  aglow  with  pleasant 
thoughts. 

The  bell  whirred  raucously.  He  saw  that  he  had  for 
gotten  to  replace  the  receiver,  and  putting  it  to  his  ear 
caught  Casey's  voice  again:  — 

'Say,  Carg,  Jim  Smith's  in  the  office,  and  won't  leave  till 
he's  heard  from  you.  Montana  Pacific's  off  two  points 
more.  Say,  do  you  want  to  carry  him?  He  says  he's  done 
for  if  you  sell  him  out/ 

A  fire  of  indignation  rushed  through  Cargan.  'What 
d'  you  think  I  am  —  a  damned  philanthropist? '  he  yelled. 
'  Sell  out  the  old  gambler !  Sell  him  out ! '  And  he  hung  up. 


NOTHING 

BY   ZEPHINE   HUMPHREY 


THIS  is  not  going  to  be  an  easy  story  to  write.  Its  theme 
is  precisely  that  which  I  have  chosen  for  my  title;  and 
naturally  its  positive  significance  is  not  obvious.  But  I 
must  somehow  get  the  thing  into  words.  The  spiritual 
value  which  I  found  in  the  experience  may  come  home  to 
some  reader.  At  any  rate,  it  is  good  for  us  all  to  stop  now 
and  then  and  challenge  the  conventional  standards  of  our 
lives. 

To  begin  with,  I  presume  that  there  are  few  sympathetic 
students  of  humanity  who  will  not  agree  with  me  that  the 
strain  of  mysticism  which  sometimes  appears  in  the  New 
England  character  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  and  touch 
ing  of  all  the  manifestations  of  our  human  nature.  It  is 
so  unexpected!  The  delicate  pearl  in  the  rough  oyster  is 
not  more  apparently  incongruous,  rarer,  or  more  priceless. 
Nay,  it  is  more  than  that.  The  development  is  so  impos 
sible  as  to  be  always  a  miracle,  freshly  wrought  by  the 
finger  of  God. 

There  are  all  sorts  of  elements  in  it  which  do  not  appear 
in  other  kinds  of  mysticism:  humor  (that  unfailing  New 
England  salt!),  reserve,  and  a  paradoxical  mixture  of  inde 
pendence  and  deference.  It  knows  how  inexplicable  it 
must  seem  to  its  environment,  how  it  must  fret  its  oyster; 
so  it  effaces  itself  as  much  as  possible.  But  it  yields  not 
one  jot  of  its  integrity.  It  holds  a  hidden,  solitary  place 
apart — like  a  rare  orchid  in  the  woods,  like  a  hermit 
thrush.  Even  to  those  who  love  it,  it  will  not  lightly  or 
often  reveal  itself.  But  when  it  does  —  well,  I  would  take 


168  NOTHING 

a  weary,  barefoot  pilgrimage  for  the  sake  of  the  experience 
which  I  had  last  summer.  And  here  I  may  as  well  begin 
my  narrative. 


I  sat  behind  her  in  the  little  country  church;  and  when 
I  had  studied  her  profile  for  a  few  moments,  I  was  glad 
of  a  chance  to  rise  and  sing  the  Doxology.  She  was  a 
woman  of  fifty-odd,  a  typical  Vermonter,  with  the  angular 
frame  and  features  peculiar  to  her  class.  Her  mouth  was 
large,  her  cheek-bones  high;  her  thin,  dark  hair,  streaked 
with  gray,  was  drawn  smoothly  down  behind  her  ears. 
But  her  expression !  —  that  gave  her  away.  Not  flagrantly, 
of  course.  To  discover  her  one  had  to  be  temperamentally 
on  the  watch  for  her.  Apparently,  like  all  the  rest  of  us, 
she  was  looking  at  the  flowers  before  the  pulpit;  but  I  was 
sure  that  her  wide  blue  eyes  were  really  intent  on  some 
thing  behind  and  beyond.  Her  mouth  brooded,  her  fore 
head  dreamed,  her  whole  face  pondered  grave  and  delect 
able  matters.  I  am  afraid  that  I  did  not  hear  much  of  the 
sermon  that  morning. 

When  church  was  over,  I  followed  her  out,  and  waited 
to  see  in  what  direction  she  turned  her  homeward  steps. 
Then  I  made  up  my  mind  to  devote  the  next  week  to  taking 
walks  in  that  same  direction.  The  minister's  wife  saw  me 
looking  after  her,  and  approached  me  with  a  smile  which 
I  understood.  She  was  about  to  say,  'That  is  one  of  our 
native  oddities,  a  real  character.  I  see  that  she  interests 
you.  Shall  I  take  you  to  see  her?  You  will  find  her  a 
curious  and  amusing  study.'  But  I  headed  her  off  by  let 
ting  the  wind  blow  my  handkerchief  away.  Nobody  should 
tell  me  anything  about  my  mystic  —  not  even  what  her 
name  was,  or  where  she  lived ! 

I  was  fully  prepared  not  to  find  her  for  several  days. 


NOTHING  169 

I  went  forth  in  quest  of  her  in  the  spirit  in  which  I  always 
start  out  to  find  a  hermit  thrush  —  ready  to  be  disap 
pointed,  to  wait,  humbly  aware  that  the  best  rewards  de 
mand  and  deserve  patience.  But  she  was  not  so  securely 
hidden  as  the  thrush.  Her  little  house  gave  her  away  to 
my  seeking,  as  her  expression,  the  day  before,  had  given 
her  away  to  my  sympathy. 

It  was  just  the  house  for  her:  low  and  white,  under  a  big 
tree,  on  the  side  of  a  brook- threaded  hill,  a  little  apart  from 
the  village.  I  recognized  it  the  instant  I  saw  it;  and  when 
I  had  read  the  name  —  'Hesper  Sherwood '  —  on  the  mail 
box  by  the  side  of  the  road,  I  confidently  turned  in  at  the 
gate. 

She  was  working  in  her  garden,  clad  in  a  blue-checked 
gingham  apron  and  a  blue  sunbonnet.  When  she  heard 
my  footsteps,  she  looked  up  slowly,  turning  in  my  direction, 
and,  for  the  first  time,  I  saw  her  full  face. 

It  was  even  better  than  her  profile.  Oh!  when  human 
features  can  be  moulded  to  such  quietness  and  confidence, 
what  an  inexplicable  pity  it  is  that  they  ever  learn  the 
trick  of  fretfulness!  In  Hesper  Sherwood,  humanity  for 
once  looked  like  a  child  of  God. 

I  was  not  sure  at  first  that  she  saw  me  distinctly.  Per 
haps  the  sun  dazzled  her  shaded  eyes.  Her  expectant  ex 
pression  held  itself  poised  a  little  uncertainly,  as  if  she 
were  doubtful  of  the  exact  requirements  of  the  situation. 
But  when  I  said  something  —  commonplace  enough  and 
yet  heartf ul  —  about  the  beauty  of  the  view  from  her  gate, 
her  face  lighted  and  she  came  forward. 

'It's  better  from  the  house,'  she  said,  shyly,  yet  eagerly. 
*  Won't  you  come  up  and  see?' 

It  was  indeed  as  fair  a  prospect  as  threshold  ever  opened 
out  upon.  Close  at  hand  was  the  green  hillside,  dropping 
down  to  the  smiling  summer  valley;  and  beyond  were  the 


170  NOTHING 

mountains,  big  and  blue,  with  their  heads  in  the  brilliant 
sky  and  with  cloud-shadows  trailing  slowly  over  them. 
Directly  across  the  way,  they  were  massive;  in  the  distance, 
where  the  valley  opened  out  to  the  south,  they  were  hazy 
and  tender.  One  of  them  loomed  above  the  little  house, 
and  held  it  in  its  hand.  Everywhere,  they  were  com 
manding  presences;  and  it  was  clear  that  the  house  had 
taken  up  its  position  wholly  on  their  account. 

Plain  enough  in  itself  it  was,  that  house.  Its  three  small 
rooms  were  meagrely  furnished;  and  its  windows  were 
curtainless,  inviting  the  eyes  beyond  themselves.  It  was 
utterly  restful.  It  made  me  want  to  go  home  and  burn  up 
half  the  things  I  possess.  Later,  as  I  came  to  know  it  and 
its  owner  better,  I  understood  what  perfect  counterparts 
they  were.  She,  too,  invited  the  gaze  beyond  herself. 

It  is,  of  course,  not  my  intention  to  trace  the  develop 
ment  of  our  friendship.  Though  we  trusted  each  other 
from  the  beginning,  we  took  the  whole  summer  to  feel  our 
way  into  each  other's  lives.  It  was  a  beautiful  experience. 
I  would  not  have  hurried  it.  But  now  I  want  to  proceed  at 
once  to  the  conversation  in  which  she  finally  told  me  ex 
plicitly  what  had  not  happened  to  her.  It  was  but  the 
definite  statement  of  what  I  had  known  all  along:  that 
here  was  a  life  which  God  had  permitted  Himself  the  luxury 
of  keeping  apart  for  his  own  delectation. 

We  were  sitting  out  on  the  front  steps,  in  the  face  of  the 
mountains  and  valley;  and  we  had  said  nothing  for  a  long 
time.  Our  silence  had  brought  us  so  close  that  when  she 
began  to  speak,  my  ear  ignored  the  uttered  words  and  I 
felt  as  if  my  thoughts  were  reading  hers. 

*  It's  queer  about  folks'  lives  is  n't  it? '  she  said  thought 
fully  —  though  I  am  not  sure  that  she  was  any  more  aware 
of  her  lips  than  I  was  of  my  ears.  *  How  they  follow  one 
line;  how  the  same  things  keep  happening  to  them,  over 


NOTHING  171 

and  over.  I  suppose  it's  what  people  call  Fate.  There's 
no  getting  away  from  it. 

'Take  my  brother  Silas.  As  a  boy,  he  was  always  mak 
ing  the  luckiest  trades;  couldn't  seem  to  help  it.  Then 
when  he  married  and  moved  to  his  new  farm,  be  began  to 
get  rich;  and  now  he  could  n't  stop  his  money  if  he  wanted 
to.  He  must  be  worth  fifteen  thousand  dollars. 

'Take  my  sister  Persis.     She's  had  eleven  children. 

'Take  my  uncle  Rufus.  He's  been  around  the  world 
three  times,  and  is  just  starting  again. 

'Take  —  ' 

She  paused  and  hesitated. 

'You/  I  supplied  softly. 

'  Well,  yes,  take  me.'  She  turned  and  flashed  a  sudden 
smile  at  me.  'I've  always  wanted  everything,  and  I've 
had  — •  nothing.' 

She  spoke  the  word  as  if  it  were  the  pot  of  gold  at  the  foot 
of  the  rainbow. 

'It  took  me  a  long  time  to  understand,'  she  went  on 
quietly,  as  I  made  no  comment.  '  I  suppose  that  was  nat 
ural.  I  was  young;  and  I  had  never  happened  to  hear  of  a 
case  like  mine.  At  first,  I  thought  that,  just  because  I 
wanted  a  thing,  I  was  bound  to  have  it.  There  was  my 
mother.' 

Again  she  paused,  and  a  tender,  glowing  light  appeared 
in  her  face,  like  the  quickening  of  a  latent  fire.  It  was  elo 
quent  of  all  sorts  of  passionate,  youthful,  eager  things. 

'I  guess  I  worshiped  my  mother,'  she  submitted  sim 
ply.  'Maybe  you  think  that,  anyway,  I  had  her.  But, 
no,  I  hadn't.  She  liked  me  well  enough.  Mothers  do. 
But  we  had  a  big  family,  and  we  lived  in  a  big  house,  and 
she  was  very  busy.  It  bothered  her  to  have  me  get  in  her 
way  with  my  huggings  and  kissings.  Why  in  the  world 
could  n't  I  wait  until  bedtime?  Poor  mother!  She  never 


172  NOTHING 

did  seem  to  know  what  to  make  of  my  devotion.  People 
don't  like  to  be  loved  too  well ;  it  embarrasses  them. 

'She  died  when  I  was  fourteen.  And  I  thought  I'd  die 
too/ 

There  was  no  shadow  on  Hesper's  face  as  she  remembered 
her  young,  far-away  anguish ;  rather,  there  was  a  strange 
deepening  of  peace.  But  she  was  silent  for  two  or  three 
minutes;  and  I  noticed  that  she  put  out  her  hand  and 
caressed  an  old-fashioned,  crocheted  tidy  that  lay  on  the 
arm  of  a  chair  which  she  had  brought  out  on  the  porch. 
When  she  resumed  her  story,  she  spoke  somewhat  more 
rapidly. 

*  I  was  sick  a  long  time.    If  I  had  n't  been,  I  think  I 
might  have  gone  crazy.    But  pain  took  my  attention,  and 
weakness  made  me  sleep  a  good  deal;  and  when  I  came  to 
get  up  again,  I  was  quieter.    I  spent  lots  of  time  in  the 
fields  and  woods.    I  had  always  loved  them,  and  now  they 
seemed  to  help  me  more  than  anything  else.    There  was 
something  about  them  so  big  that  it  was  willing  to  let  me 
love  it  as  much  as  I  wanted  to.     That  was  comforting. 
When  I  was  in  the  woods,  I  felt  as  if  I  had  hold  of  an  end 
less  thread.     You  know  how  it  is ? ' 

She  appealed  to  me. 

*  Indeed,  yes!'  I  answered  her.     And  I  quoted  William 

Blake,— 

'  Only  wind  it  into  a  ball,  — 
It  will  lead  you  in  at  heaven's  gate, 
Built  in  Jerusalem's  wall.' 

She  nodded  soberly,  yet  glowingly,  and  pondered  the 
words  for  a  moment.  Then,  'That's  very  good/  she  said. 
'Please  say  it  again. 

'Well,  by  and  by/  she  continued,  touching  her  finger  as 
if  she  were  half  unconsciously  enumerating  the  points  of  a 
discourse,  —  there  was  something  indescribably  simple 


NOTHING  173 

and  downright  in  her  manner  of  unfolding  her  experience, 
—  *  by  and  by,  somebody  gave  me  a  card  to  the  village 
library,  and  I  began  to  read.  Of  course  I  had  always  gone 
to  school,  but  the  pieces  in  the  readers  did  n't  interest  me 
particularly,  and  I  had  n't  followed  them  up.  A  reader 
is  n't  a  book,  anyway;  it's  a  crazy  quilt.  I  guess  I  shan't 
ever  forget  that  summer.  I  could  n't  do  anything  but  read. 
I  read  stories  and  poems  and  books  about  travel  and  his 
tory  and  peoples'  lives.  I  had  a  hiding-place  up  in  the 
woods,  where  I  used  to  go  and  stay  for  hours,  sometimes 
whole  days.  My  older  sister  could  n't  get  anything  out  of 
me  in  the  way  of  housework.  It  was  wonderful.'  Her 
voice  rose  a  little,  and  something  of  the  old  exultation 
came  flooding  back  into  her  face.  'Is  n't  it  silly  to  talk  of 
books  as  if  they  were  just  print  and  paper,  when  they  are 
really  stars  and  seas  and  cities  and  pictures  and  people  and 
everything!  There  was  nothing  my  books  did  n't  give  me 
that  summer;  and  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  there  was  noth 
ing  they  did  n't  make  me  want.  I  wanted  to  travel,  to  go 
everywhere,  to  see  and  hear  everything;  above  all,  by  way 
of  a  beginning,  I  wanted  to  go  to  school. 

'  I  was  always  an  impatient  child ;  and  it  did  seem  as 
if  I  couldn't  wait  till  autumn,  when  the  schools  opened. 
There's  a  good  school  at  Fieldsborough,  over  the  mountain. 
I  coaxed  my  father  to  let  me  go  there;  and,  after  a  while, 
he  consented.  On  the  day  he  wrote  to  enter  my  name,  I 
ran  up  in  the  woods  and  lay  in  a  bed  of  ferns  and  cried  for 
joy.  I  hugged  every  tree  that  came  in  my  way.  I  tried 
to  hug  the  brook.  Dear  me ! '  Again  she  broke  off,  and  the 
light  which  had  begun  to  burn  in  her  eyes  softened  into  a 
smile.  'That's  the  way  I  was  then.  I  was  so  hot-hearted. 
I  didn't  understand.' 

'But  you  went?'  I  inquired,  my  sympathetic  eagerness 
suddenly  breaking  bounds.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  could 


174  NOTHING 

not  stand  it  if  she  had  been  disappointed.    *  Oh !  why  not?  * 
My  voice  faltered,  for  she  shook  her  head. 

*  My  eyes/  she  said  briefly.    *  They  had  always  bothered 
me;  and,  before  he  let  me  go  to  school,  father  had  them 
examined  by  a  city  doctor  who  was  boarding  in  the  village. 
He  said  I'd  surely  be  blind  some  day;  and  that,  of  course, 
the  more  books  I  read,  the  sooner  the  end  would  come.* 

She  spoke  as  if  she  referred  to  the  wearing  out  of  an  um 
brella  or  a  pair  of  shoes;  and,  fortunately  for  us  both,  my 
distress  kept  me  dumb. 

'It  was  pretty  hard  at  first  —  a  real  blow.  But  I  was 
sixteen  years  old,  and  I  had  suffered  once.  Then,  too,  I 
thought  I  had  to  make  a  choice,  and  I  needed  all  my  wits 
about  me.  So  I  held  on  to  myself,  and  went  off  to  the 
woods  to  think.  Should  I  go  to  school,  or  should  I  keep 
my  eyes  as  long  as  I  could?  As  soon  as  I  had  put  my  mind 
to  it,  however,  I  found  that  there  was  n't  any  real  question 
there.  Of  course  I'd  got  to  keep  my  eyes,  and  the  school 
must  go.  There  were  all  sorts  of  reasons.  I  wanted  to  see 
the  woods  and  mountains  as  long  as  possible.  I  didn't 
want  to  become  dependent  on  any  one.  My  memory 
wasn't  very  good;  and  I  knew,  most  likely,  if  I  went  to 
school  and  stuffed  my  mind  full  that  year,  I'd  soon  forget 
everything,  and  there  I'd  be  —  worse  off  than  ever.  So  I 
gave  over  thinking  about  it,  and  just  lay  in  the  ferns  all 
the  afternoon. 

*  Maybe  you'll  hardly  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that  I 
was  happy  that  day.    I  don't  know  what  it  was.    Some 
thing  moved  in  the  treetops  and  in  the  shadows.    I  watched 
it  closely;  and,  by  and  by,  when  I  was  just  on  the  point  of 
seeing  it,  I  realized  that  both  my  eyes  were  closed.    If  I 
had  n't  been  so  surprised  by  that  discovery  and  so  taken 
up  with  wondering  how  I  had  happened  to  shut  my  eyes 
without  knowing  it,  I  believe  I'd  have  seen  — ' 


NOTHING  175 

Her  voice  trailed  off  into  silence;  and  I  presently  found 
myself  wondering  if  she  had  left  that  sentence  unfinished 
also  without  knowing  it. 


II 

'My  father  died  the  next  year/  she  continued,  after  a 
few  thoughtful  minutes,  'and  my  sister  married,  and  I 
came  to  live  in  this  little  house.  I  had  it  fixed  over  to  suit 
me,  so  that  it  was  as  simple  and  convenient  as  possible; 
and  I  set  myself  to  learn  it  by  heart.  I  did  a  lot  of  my 
housework  after  dark.  Inside  a  year,  I  was  so  independent 
that  I  knew  I  need  never  worry  about  having  to  get  any 
body  to  help  me.  By  taking  plenty  of  time,  I  managed  to 
learn  some  books  by  heart  too;  and  I  found  it  was  much 
more  interesting  to  sit  and  think  about  one  paragraph  for 
an  hour  than  to  read  twenty  pages.  Even  a  few  words  are 
enough.  Take,  "Be  still,  and  know  that  I  am  God"; 
or,  ^'Acquaint  now  thyself  with  Him,  and  be  at  peace." 
There's  no  end  to  those  sentences. 

'Well,'  —  She  touched  her  third  finger,  and  then,  for  the 
first  time,  she  came  to  a  full  pause,  as  if  she  were  not  sure 
about  going  on.  Her  face  grew  shy  and  reserved  and  re 
luctant. 

I  looked  away — not  for  anything  would  I  have  urged 
her  further  confidence.  But  she  went  on  presently.  She 
had  committed  herself  to  the  stream  of  this  confession, 
and  she  would  not  refuse  to  be  carried  by  it  wherever  it 
might  wind. 

'After  a  while  I  had  a  lover.  He  was  a  man  from  the 
city,  and  I  met  him  in  the  woods.  We  were  never  intro 
duced;  and,  for  a  long  time,  I  did  n't  know  anything  about 
him  —  except  that  I  loved  him  and  he  loved  me.  We 
could  n't  help  it,  for  we  felt  the  same  way  about  the 


176  NOTHING 

woods.  I  had  never  known  any  one  like  him  before,  and 
never  expected  to,  because  I'm  so  different  from  most 
folks.  He  made  me  understand  how  lonely  it  is  to  be  dif 
ferent.  I  —  we  — ' 

But,  after  all,  she  could  not  dwell  on  this  experience,  and 
I  did  not  want  her  to.  The  poignant  beauty  of  the  relation 
was  already  sufficiently  apparent  to  my  imagination. 

'One  day  he  told  me  that  he  had  a  wife  at  home/  she 
concluded ; '  and  I  never  saw  him  again.  I  think  it  was  then 
that  I  really  knew  and  understood/ 

Knew  what?  Understood  what?  She  had  an  air  of  hav 
ing  said  all  that  was  necessary,  of  having  come  to  the  end 
of  her  story;  and  I  shrank  from  putting  any  crude  ques 
tions  to  her.  But  it  seemed  to  me  that,  if  she  did  not  tell 
me  something  more  of  her  secret,  I  should  just  miss  the 
most  significant  revelation  I  had  ever  caught  a  glimpse  of. 

Perhaps  she  read  my  suspense.  At  any  rate,  she  said 
presently, — 

'It  was  very  simple.  If  it  had  n't  been,  I  could  n't  have 
understood  it;  for  I  was  never  a  good  hand  at  trying  to 
reason  things  out.  It  was  just  that  I  was  n't  ever  to  have 
anything  I  wanted.  When  I  once  knew  and  accepted  that, 
I  felt  as  if  I'd  slipped  out  into  a  great,  wide,  quiet  sea.' 

This  was,  to  her  own  mind,  so  definitely  the  end  of  her 
narrative,  that,  after  sitting  a  moment  in  silence,  she  half 
rose  as  if  to  go  into  the  house  and  attend  to  some  domestic 
task.  But  I  put  out  my  hand  and  held  her  apron's  hem. 

'You  mean—  '  I  stammered. 

Really,  she  must  tell  me  a  little  more ! 

A  look  of  perplexity,  almost  of  distress,  came  into  her 
tranquil  face,  and  she  shook  her  head. 

'I  told  you  I  was  no  hand  at  working  things  out,'  she 
said.  'It's  better  just  to  know.' 

'Please!'  I  insisted. 


NOTHING  177 

It  was  crass  in  me;  but  I  felt  that  something  as  precious 
as  life  itself  depended  on  my  grasping  the  full  significance 
of  this  story. 

Gently,  but  very  resolutely,  she  stooped  and  released  her 
apron  from  my  clutch. 

'I've  some  bread  in  the  oven,'  she  said,  and  disappeared. 


in 

She  was  gone  so  long  that  I  had  time  to  do  what  I  would 
with  the  fragments  of  the  story  which  she  had  so  non-com- 
mittally  delivered  to  me.  Since  analysis  was  my  way,  I 
should  have  full  scope  for  it.  I  sat  with  my  head  in  my 
hands,  my  elbows  on  my  knees.  The  sunset  deepened  and 
glowed  around  me,  but  I  paid  no  attention  to  it.  The 
cloudy  abstraction  which  hovered  before  my  inner  vision, 
and  let  me  grasp  here  a  fringe,  there  a  fold,  was  all-ab 
sorbing  to  me. 

Souls  that  want  greatly,  like  Hesper,  are  doomed  to  fail 
ure  or  disappointment.  No  earthly  having  can  possibly 
satisfy  them.  For  what  they  really  want  is  simply  God,  and 
earth  represents  Him  very  imperfectly.  Hesper  had  not 
been  happy  with  the  thing  she  had  come  nearest  having  — 
her  mother.  Would  she  have  been  happy  with  her  lover? 
Would  he  have  let  her  love  him  'too  welF?  Books  and 
education  and  travel  are  all  finite  and  fragmentary  means 
to  an  end  which  never  arrives.  Only  adventurous  spirits 
can  escape  the  torment  in  them.  And,  with  all  her  eager 
ness,  Hesper  was  not  adventurous.  She  was  too  earnest 
and  humble,  she  was  too  direct.  Fate  had  been  good  to 
her;  and,  in  giving  her  nothing,  had  really  given  her  every 
thing.  Everything:  that  was  God.  Well,  her  story  had 
not  once  referred  to  Him,  but  it  had  been  as  instinct  with 
Him  as  a  star  with  light.  It  was  He  who  had  beckoned  and 


178  NOTHING 

lured  her  by  lurking  in  her  three  definite  interests,  and  then 
had  shattered  them  before  her  in  order  that  she  might  find 
Him.  She  had  Him  fast  at  last,  and  He  had  her.  There 
was  no  mistaking  the  heavenly  surrender  of  her  face.  I 
was  awed  with  the  apprehension  of  the  passionate  seeking 
and  finding  between  a  human  soul  and  its  Maker.  Did 
she  recognize  and  acknowledge  the  situation?  Or,  here 
again,  did  she  prefer  a  blind  certainty? 

Blind !  The  word  had  dogged  me  for  several  weeks,  but 
I  had  evaded  it.  Now,  when  it  suddenly  confronted  me, 
I  was  all  but  staggered  by  it.  I  think  I  groaned  slightly;  I 
know  I  pressed  my  hand  closely  over  my  eyes.  Then  my 
own  action  admonished  me.  Here  was  I,  deliberately 
shutting  myself  away  from  the  sight  of  the  outer  world  in 
order  that  I  might  hold  and  marshal  my  thoughts  in  the 
presence  of  reality.  The  hills  and  sky  are  distracting;  the 
whole  flying  glory  of  creation  is  a  perpetual  challenge  and 
disturbance  to  the  meditative  spirit.  How  supremely  ex 
cellent  it  would  be  if  one  could  only  look  long  and  hard  and 
adoringly  enough  at  it  to  see  through  it  once;  and  then 
never  see  it  again,  for  the  rapt  contemplation  of  That 
which  lies  behind! 

I  had  come  to  this  point  in  my  revery  when  Hesper 
softly  returned  and  stood  in  the  doorway  behind  me.  I 
looked  up  at  her.  She  returned  my  smile,  but  I  thought 
that  her  eyes  did  not  quite  fix  me.  Neither  did  she  glance 
at  the  sky  when  I  commented  on  the  beauty  of  the  sunset 
—  although  she  assented  to  the  comment  convincingly. 
As  she  sat  down  beside  me,  her  hands  and  feet  made  a  deft 
groping.  I  said  nothing;  and  I  have  never  known  whether 
she  or  any  one  else  knew  that  she  was  blind. 

The  minister's  wife  waylaid  me,  as  I  passed  her  house 
that  evening  on  my  way  back  to  my  room. 

'You've  been  to  see  Hesper  Sherwood  again?'  she  re- 


NOTHING  179 

marked,  with  a  righteous,  tolerant  air  of  ignoring  a  slight. 
'  I'm  so  glad !  Her  life  is  so  empty  that  any  little  attention 
means  riches  to  her.' 

*  Empty!' 

The  expostulation  was  a  mistake,  but  I  really  could  not 

help  it. 

'I  have  never  known  such  a  brimming  life,'  I  added,  still 

more  foolishly. 

The  minister's  wife  stared  at  me. 

*  Why,  she  has  nothing  at  all,'  she  said. 
'Precisely!'  I  commented,  and  went  on  my  way. 


A  MOTH  OF  PEACE 

BY  KATHARINE   FULLERTON  GEROULD 

ANNE  MARMONT,  of  old  the  pupil  of  the  nuns,  had  told 
her  about  Andecy:  an  ancient  place,  half -manor,  half- 
farm,  in  the  Marne  valley,  whence  you  could  walk  over  a 
wind-swept  plain  to  the  battlefields  of  the  Hundred  Days. 
'The  nuns,  being  exiled,  of  course  can't  keep  it  up  any 
longer,  and  no  one  wants  to  buy.     I  remember  it  as  a  place 
of  heavenly  peace  —  though  in  my  day  they  used  to  make 
the  oldest  and  Grossest  nun  in  the  order  superior  at  Andecy. 
However,  Madame  Frangoise  de  Paule  is  dead  now,  and 
there  aren't  any  nuns  anyhow.     Do  take  it,  dear.     If 
you  want  quiet'  —  Anne  Marmont  swept  her  arms  out  as 
if  to  embrace  illimitable  horizons.     '  Nothing  but  a  church- 
spire  or  a  clump  of  trees  to  be  seen  from  edge  to  edge  of  the 
plain.     The  unstable  ocean  is  nothing  to  it.     And  if  you 
want  variety,  you  can  walk  over  to  Champaubert  and  look 
at  the  house  where  Napoleon  stayed,  the  night  before  the 
battle.     Riddled  with  bullet-holes  it  is.     There  used  to 
be  a  foolish  ancient  there  who  remembered  the  Hundred 
Days.     He's  dead  now,  I  suppose  —  but  then,  so  is  Ma 
dame  Frangoise  de  Paule,  thank  Heaven,  and  her  cane, 
too.     I  hope  they  buried  the  cane.     Do  take  it,  darling. 
It's  dirt  cheap,  and  my  dear  nuns  would  be  so  pleased. 
They'd  probably  send  the  money  to  the  new  Nicaragua 
convent. ' 

And  Miss  Stanley  had  gone  to  Andecy,  had  been  con 
quered  by  the  insuperable  peace  of  the  plain,  and  had  set 
up  her  little  household.  No  place  that  she  had  ever  seen 
seemed  so  good  to  wait  in.  When  Edmund  Laye  came 


A  MOTH  OF  PEACE  181 

back  from  the  Argentine  to  marry  her,  she  would  submit 
to  London;  but  already  she  had  hopes  of  enticing  him  to 
Andecy  for  the  honeymoon.  The  chill  of  the  slow  spring 
warmed  her  northern  blood;  she  liked  the  reluctance  of 
the  season's  green,  the  roaring  fire  that  met  her  in  the 
salon,  the  sharp  cold  click  of  her  boots  on  the  brick-paved 
corridor. 

She  was  well  cared  for :  a  Protestant  and  a  foreigner,  who 
was,  none  the  less,  a  mysterious  well-wisher  of  'ces  dames, ' 
she  found  a  shy  allegiance  springing  up  about  her  steps  as 
she  traversed  the  plain.  There  was  always  a  hot  g alette  for 
her  at  *  la  vieille  Andecy, '  an  obsequious  curtsy  at  Congy 
chateau  from  the  housekeeper,  who  showed  with  mumbling 
pride  the  bed  where  Henri  Quatre  had  slept;  and  a  wel 
coming  smile  from  St.  Eloi,  that  holy  humorist,  in  the 
Champaubert  chapel.  She  sat  until  twilight,  often,  on  the 
sinister  shore  of  1'Etang  des  Loups.  Even  the  legended 
'Croix  Jeanne,'  leaning  against  its  pine  thicket,  seemed 
glad  of  her  awkward  Protestant  dip.  It  was  a  good  place 
—  and  all  for  the  price  of  a  second-rate  hotel  splotched 
with  Baedekers. 

Loneliness,  in  the  sense  of  removal  from  the  social  scene, 
did  not  afflict  her.  She  who  shrank  almost  morbidly  from 
human  encounters,  had  no  fear  of  the  peasants.  Slim, 
shy,  timorous,  she  felt  safe  here.  Her  terrors  were  all  of 
people  and  what  people  could  do  to  her.  The  plain  ignored 
her  self -distrust.  Letters  came  from  Edmund,  regularly, 
if  you  granted  the  delay  of  driving  to  Sezanne  to  fetch 
them.  The  months  rounded  slowly,  punctually,  to  winter 
and  her  marriage.  So  might  a  chatelaine  have  waited, 
powerless  but  trusting. 

Then,  in  full  summer-time,  the  lightning  struck,  choosing 
again  the  Montmirail  plain,  after  a  hundred  years'  respite. 
The  first  rumors  were  vague  and  vivid  —  all  detail  and  no 


182  A  MOTH  OF  PEACE 

substance,  like  news  in  the  Middle  Ages.  There  was  war, 
and  she  scarcely  knew  more.  Jacques  or  Etienne  turned 
over  night  into  a  reservist,  and  departed;  but  had  it  not 
been  for  that,  she  would  hardly  have  known.  The  two 
maid-servants  whom  she  had  brought  with  her  clamored 
for  Paris;  she  gave  them  money  and  had  them  driven  to 
Sezanne.  After  the  mobilization  they  must  have  got 
through,  for  she  never  heard  again.  It  did  not  occur  to  her 
to  strike  out,  herself,  for  the  capital ;  for  her  common  sense 
told  her  she  was  better  off  where  she  was  until  Paris  had 
cleared  the  decks  for  action.  Besides,  Paris  frightened 
her.  She  hated  being  jostled  in  streets;  she  resented  even 
a  curious  stare. 

Old  Marie  and  her  husband,  with  their  grandchild,  came 
up  from  their  cottage  to  the  manor  to  sleep;  and  with  the 
son  and  nephew  gone,  there  was  nothing  for  them  to  do  but 
potter  about  rheumatically  in  her  behalf.  For  many  days, 
the  click  of  the  rosary  was  never  stilled  among  the  corridors 
of  Andecy. 

And  still  the  rumors  grew,  terror  capping  terror,  until 
it  seemed  that  even  at  Andecy  blood  might  rain  down  at 
any  moment  from  the  arched  heaven.  At  first  Miss 
Stanley  forced  herself  to  drive  the  fat  donkey  into  Sezanne 
for  news  —  a  half -day's  trip  with  only  more  terror  at  the 
end.  The  feeble  crowds  beset  the  bulletins  posted  outside 
the  mairie,  and  scattered,  murmuring  their  own  comments 
on  the  laconic  messages.  Sometimes  crones  and  half- 
grown  children  on  the  edge  of  the  crowd  got  her  to  report 
to  them,  as  she  emerged  from  the  denser  group  in  front  of 
the  mairie  wall.  She  did  so  as  gently  as  she  could,  for  they 
were  all  involved :  fathers,  husbands,  sweethearts,  brothers, 
sons,  were  facing  the  enemy  at  some  point  or  other  that 
only  the  War  Office  knew.  If  some  creatures  had  had 


A  MOTH  OF  PEACE  183 

nothing  to  give,  it  was  only  because  the  Prussians  had 
taken  all  they  had,  in  '70. 

There  was  no  insane  terror;  the  people  were  strangely 
calm;  yet  they  and  theirs  had  been,  of  all  time,  the  peculiar 
food  of  the  enemy,  and  there  was  pessimism  afloat.  The 
plain  was  as  defenseless  as  they:  its  mild  crops  as  fore 
ordained  to  mutilation  by  feet  and  hoofs  and  wheels  as 
they  to  splintering  shells. 

Miss  Stanley,  who  was  so  shy  of  unfamiliar  action,  felt 
Sezanne  too  much  for  her.  She  stopped  going,  after  a 
week,  and  resigned  herself  to  not  knowing.  She  chafed 
under  the  censorship,  though  she  knew  that  Edmund 
Laye  would  tell  her  that  it  was  well  done  of  the  *  Powers 
that  Were'  to  stanch  the  leakage  of  news  as  you  would 
stanch  blood  from  an  artery.  The  General  Staff  was 
better  off  not  drained  of  its  vital  facts.  To  be  sure,  Miss 
Stanley  never  read  newspapers.  Even  less,  did  she  sub 
scribe  to  them.  But  she  longed  now  for  a  neutral  America, 
where  the  extras  came  hot  and  hot,  where  experts  of  every 
kind  fought  out  the  battles  on  the  front  page,  and  good 
journalese  stimulated  the  lax  imagination. 

Her  determination  to  go  no  more  to  Sezanne  led  her  for 
exercise  to  other  quarters  of  the  plain.  She  would  walk 
quickly,  tensely,  for  an  hour,  her  eyes  fixed  on  a  clump  of 
trees  or  a  church-spire  far  ahead  of  her  at  the  end  of  the 
unswerving  road,  until  the  clump  and  the  spire  rose  up  to 
match  her  height  and  she  came  to  the  first  whitewashed 
cottage.  Champaubert  church  was  never  empty,  these 
days,  of  worshipers  who  gazed  up  at  gaudy  St.  Eloi  as  if  he 
could  help.  The  crops  that  waved  on  the  old  Montmirail 
battlefield  were  thinly  harvested  by  women  and  an  im 
peding  fry  of  children.  The  steep  little  streets  of  Congy 
were  dirtier  than  ever,  and  the  ducks  and  the  infants 


184  A  MOTH  OF  PEACE 

plashed  about  more  indiscriminately  in  the  common  mud- 
puddles.  No  more  gaieties  at  'la  vieille  Andecy ' :  the  old 
woman  was  prostrated  by  the  loss  of  her  reservist  grand 
son. 

Finally  she  gave  up  the  plain  too,  and  withdrew  into 
Andecy  itself,  waiting,  always  waiting,  for  word  of  Edmund 
Laye.  There  had  been  a  touch  of  loyalty  to  him  in  her 
staying  on  without  plan  of  escape.  News  of  him  would 
reach  her  here  sooner  than  elsewhere.  If  she  left,  she 
would  be  lost  in  a  maelstrom,  and  might  lose  some  precious 
word.  Until  she  heard  from  Edmund  of  his  sailing,  or  of 
a  change  of  plan,  she  would  stay  where  he  thought  of  her 
as  being.  When  she  heard,  she  would  go. 

Some  atavistic  sense  in  Miss  Stanley  caused  her  to  look, 
all  through  early  August,  to  the  provisioning  of  the  manor 
—  some  dim  instinct  to  hoard  food,  that  might  have 
sprung  from  the  heart  of  a  colonial  ancestress  behind  a 
stockade  of  logs:  premonition  against  death  and  savages. 
She  sent  old  Marie  to  buy  thriftily,  making  it  clear  that 
her  fortress  was  not  for  herself  alone,  but  for  all  who  might 
be  in  need.  Together,  she  and  Marie  and  the  grand 
daughter  piled  provisions  in  the  empty  rooms  and  the 
dark  cellars;  and  they  lived  frugally  on  milk  and  eggs  and 
soupe  aux  choux. 

Sometimes  she  wondered  whether  the  danger  was  not  a 
mere  fixed  idea  of  the  foolish  peasants  who  had  all  been 
touched  in  the  wits  by  '70.  True,  the  able-bodied  men 
were  gone,  but  the  reports  these  people  brought  her  made 
no  sense.  Their  quality  verged  on  folk-lore.  Something 
gigantic  was  going  on,  somewhere,  but  it  had  nothing  to  do 
with  Edmund  Laye  in  the  Argentine,  or  with  her  at  An 
decy.  Paris  in  danger?  Perhaps:  but  how  to  take  it  on 
their  word?  Belgium  flowing  with  blood?  Just  what  did 
it  mean?  An  aeroplane  over  Sezanne  at  dawn?  It  must 


A  MOTH  OF  PEACE  185 

often  have  happened,  allez!  The  air  was  never  free,  now 
adays.  The  Germans  in  France?  They  had  been  seeing 
Germans  behind  every  bush  for  forty  years.  So  she  talked 
with  old  Marie,  scarcely  sure  whether  she  or  old  Marie  were 
the  fool. 

Since  the  household  no  longer  drove  the  fat  donkey  to 
Sezanne,  none  of  them  knew  even  what  the  War  Office  said 
—  unless  what  old  Seraphine  from  the  next  farm  reported 
that  her  granddaughter  had  heard  in  Champaubert  from  a 
woman  whose  married  daughter  had  been  to  Sezanne  tw^o 
days  before,  could  be  called  a  War  Office  report.  And 
never,  from  the  first,  on  the  plain  of  Andecy,  had  anyone 
understood  why.  According  to  the  plain,  all  things  were 
to  be  believed  of  the  German  Emperor,  who  was  usually 
drunk;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  who  could  trust  an  atheist 
government?  The  soil  of  the  Hundred  Days  had  never 
recovered  from  Bonapartist  tendencies,  Miss  Stanley  had 
often  noted;  and  even  old  Marie  would  sometimes  mix  up 
'15  and  '70.  The  White  Paper  —  which  Miss  Stanley  had 
never  heard  of  —  would  have  been  wasted  on  Champau 
bert  and  Montmirail. 

Wonder  stirred  at  last  even  in  old  Marie's  fatalistic  mind 
at  the  lack  of  panic  in  this  shy  young  foreigner — who 
could  not  chaffer,  who  could  not  bully,  who  could  not 
endure  even  the  mimic  urbanity  of  Sezanne.  Strange 
that  she  should  be  willing  to  stay  quietly  pacing  up  and 
down  the  cobbled  courtyard  of  Andecy  for  sole  exercise! 
Past  mid-August,  Marie  put  a  vague  question. 

*  When  I  hear  from  him,  I  shall  go,  Marie,'  Miss  Stanley 
answered.  'But  I  leave  everything  here  to  you  and  The- 
ophile.  The  British  fleet  holds  the  sea,  they  say,  and  I 
shall  be  better  off  in  England.  I  shall  surely  come  back 
when  the  war  is  over,  and  perhaps  I  shall  bring  my  husband 
with  me.' 


186  A  MOTH  OF  PEACE 

Some  dim  muscular  effort  deepened  the  wrinkles  in  the 
old  woman's  face.  It  was  as  if  a  knife  had  cut  them  in  the 
living  flesh. 

'  I  hope  so  —  if  Theophile  and  I  are  here.  To  be  sure, 
you  must  go  where  it  is  your  duty.  We  will  keep  such  of 
the  provisions  as  can  be  kept  — 

*  Keep  nothing.  It  is  all  for  you  who  have  been  so  kind 
to  me  —  you  and  yours.  Not  a  child,  not  a  creature,  for  a 
dozen  miles  about  that  I  would  not  wish  to  share  with,  as 
you  know.  But  —  listen,  Marie.'  Miss  Stanley  blushed 
faintly  as  she  bent  her  head  nearer  Marie's  good  ear. 

'It  is  my  duty.  My  first  duty,  that  is,  must  be  to  my 
future  husband.  When  he  returns  from  America'  (she 
had  long  ago  learned  the  futility  of  distinguishing,  for 
Marie,  between  '  1' Amerique  du  nord '  and  *  1' Amerique  du 
sud ' ;  and  was  patient  with  her  belief  that  New  York  was  a 
suburb  of  Cayenne)  'he  will  wish  me  there.  He  was  to 
have  sailed  last  month.  A  letter  —  a  telegram  —  must 
have  gone  astray  in  the  confusion.  When  I  hear,  he  will 
doubtless  be  in  England.  And  when  he  reached  England, 
I  was  to  go  to  my  friends  and  be  married  to  him.  My 
heart  bleeds  for  France;  but  I  am  not  French,  and  my  duty 
is  not  here.  I  am  American,  you  see,  dear  Marie,  and  my 
fiance  is  English.' 

1  Ah!'  Marie  shook  her  head.  'My  old  head  is  turned 
with  all  they  tell  me,  and  the  buzzing  in  my  bad  ear  is  like 
cannon.  But  I  had  thought  that  the  English,  for  some 
reason  I  do  not  understand,  were  fighting  with  us.  They 
have  been  telling  us  for  ten  years  that  we  do  not  hate  the 
English  —  that  we  love  them.  And  Theophile  thought 
that  an  English  army  was  against  the  Germans.  But 
perhaps  I  am  wrong.  Monsieur  votre  fiance  will  not  have 
to  fight,  then?  I  congratulate  you,  mademoiselle.' 

'  The  English  are  fighting  with  the  French,  Marie.     But 


A  MOTH  OF  PEACE  187 

all  Englishmen  are  not  soldiers.     Monsieur  Laye  is  not  a 
soldier.     He  is  an  engineer.' 
'He  is  perhaps  past  the  age/ 

*  There  is  no  conscription  in  England,  Marie.     No  man 
is  a  soldier  unless  lie  chooses/ 

'No  service  to  make?' 
'None.' 

*  C'est  beau,  QCL!    All  Frenchmen  must  fight.     So  England 
may  go  to  war,  and  still  have  men  to  till  the  fields.     But 
where  do  their  armies  come  from?' 

*  Any  man  who  wishes  may  go.     But  none  are  compelled 
—  except  the  soldiers  by  profession.     There  will  be  enough, 
never  fear.     England  will  not  desert  France.' 

The  old  woman  nodded.  *I  am  not  afraid  of  that. 
And  you  are  not  afraid  that  monsieur  le  fiance  will  fight? 
I  do  not  understand  these  things.  As  Theophile  says, 
what  I  comprehend  I  do  not  hear,  and  what  I  hear  I  do  not 
comprehend.  I  go  to  fetch  mademoiselle's  soup.  They 
are  lucky,  all  the  same,  to  get  the  crops  in,  in  time  of  war.' 
She  clattered  from  the  room. 

Miss  Stanley  felt  her  heart  grow  heavy,  she  did  not  know 
precisely  why.  If  only  word  would  come!  Perhaps  she 
was  a  fool  to  stay.  There  must  be  trains  through  to  Paris 
now.  Anything  to  get  nearer  Edmund,  away  from  this 
historic,  war-bound  plain !  She  crouched  by  the  window 
to  eat  her  soupe  aux  choux  and  stale  bread.  If  only  some 
boy  would  come  riding  into  the  courtyard  with  a  letter  for 
her!  She  had  bribed  half  the  urchins  who  loitered  by  the 
mairie  in  Sezanne  to  rush  to  her  hot-foot  with  anything 
that  came. 

The  lightning  that  had  struck  once  at  Champaubert  and 
Montmirail  was  to  strike  again  before  she  heard  from 
Edmund  Laye.  Suddenly,  with  no  warning,  the  heavens 
opened  with  that  reiterant  flash,  Frightened  stragglers 


188  A  MOTH  OF  PEACE 

over  the  plain,  refugees  from  the  north  pushing  on  from 
beyond  Sezanne  in  a  blind  stumbling  dash  to  the  south 
ward;  rumors  that  sprang  up  out  of  the  ground  so  that  she 
had  but  to  stand  still  to  hear  the  world  move;  indescrib 
able  distant  noises,  commotions  less  seen  than  sensed,  on 
the  far  horizon;  a  casual  smudge  of  aeroplanes  on  the  great 
blue  round  of  heaven;  an  earth,  for  no  visible  reason, 
tumultuously  vibrating  beneath  her,  —  and  then,  at  last, 
one  hot  noon,  a  frightened  boy  falling  exhausted  at  her 
feet.  She  gave  him  the  piece  of  gold  which  for  many  days 
had  been  waiting  for  him  in  her  pocket,  and  bade  him  rest 
where  he  lay  until  he  was  ready  for  food.  Marie  and 
Theophile  crouched  beside  him,  listening  to  his  winded 
babbling. 

Armies,  armies,  fighting,  men  riding  on  horses,  guns  and 
wounded  —  like  '15,  like  '70,  like  Hell.  People  like  them 
selves  leaving  their  cottages  and  farms,  making,  with  such 
portable  treasures  as  they  had  (food,  relics,  poultry,  babes 
in  arms),  for  the  shelter  of  a  town.  No  town  could  avail 
them,  for  in  the  towns  sat  the  officers,  and  the  market 
place  offered  only  a  bigger,  a  more  organized  destruction. 
But  the  hope  of  shelter  would  take  them  far  afield.  Any 
thing  was  better  than  to  see  sabres  splintering  your  walls, 
and  a  greasy  flame  replacing  all  that  had  been  ancestral 
and  intimate.  Better  to  die  in  the  open  with  friends — not 
smoked  out  of  your  own  cellar  to  fall  on  a  bayonet.  They 
knew  the  secular  ways  of  war:  the  dwellers  on  the  plain 
were  the  foredoomed  type  of  the  refugee,  the  world  over. 
Once  in  so  often  men  fought,  and  poor  people  were  home 
less.  And  now  none  of  the  'vieux  de  la  vieille '  were  there  to 
guard. 

These  were  the  visions  that  assembled  in  Miss  Stanley's 
brain  while  Marie,  her  lean  fists  clenched,  reported  the 
boy's  wild  talk.  The  lumps  of  fat  hardened  on  her  con- 


A  MOTH  OF  PEACE  189 

gealing  soup;  and  still  her  mind  went  painfully,  shuttle- 
wise,  back  and  forth  from  her  telegram  —  infinitely  de 
layed,  but  clearly  authentic  —  to  the  apocalyptic  events 
surrounding  her.  Like  most  Americans  perpetually  de 
fended  by  two  oceans,  Miss  Stanley  had  no  conception  of 
invasion  as  a  reality.  The  insult  of  an  enemy  on  your  own 
ground  was  one  which  she  had  never  steeled  herself  to  meet. 
There  was  no  weapon  in  her  little  arsenal  for  a  literal  foe. 
Her  knees  trembled  under  her  as  she  rose  to  look  out  of 
the  window,  after  Marie,  spent  with  eloquence,  had  left 
her. 

Edmund  Laye,  by  this,  was  with  his  regiment  —  even 
she  might  not  know  where.  No  point  in  trying  to  break 
through  to  London:  his  telegram,  dated  the  day  of  his 
arrival  in  England,  was  already  too  old.  The  letter  he 
promised  her  would  go  the  way  of  all  the  letters  he  must 
have  written,  that  she  had  never  had.  And  she  herself 
was  caught:  she  had  waited  too  long  on  that  predestined 
plain.  The  noises  she  heard  seemed  rumblings  of  the 
earth  and  cracklings  of  the  inflamed  sky.  Andecy  manor 
had  not  yet  seen  one  soldier,  unless  you  reckoned  the  pilots 
of  those  soaring  monoplanes.  But  their  hours  were  num 
bered  :  soon  —  any  moment,  now  —  all  that  hidden  rumor 
would  break  forth  into  visible  fruit  of  fighting  men  —  men 
with  rifles,  men  with  lances,  men  with  mitrailleuses  or 
howitzers.  She  was  trapped.  To  try,  even  with  no 
luggage,  to  make  the  miles  to  Sezanne,  would  be  not  so 
much  to  take  her  life  in  her  hands  as  to  kick  it  from  her. 
Caught;  and  her  nervous  nostrils  feigned  for  her  a  subtle 
odor  of  smoke.  She  turned  from  the  window  and  went 
to  the  quiet  room  that  had  once  been  the  chapel.  Out  of 
those  windows  she  could  not  look,  thank  Heaven!  The 
life  of  the  Virgin,  in  villainous  stained  glass,  barred  her 
vision. 


190  A  MOTH  OF  PEACE 

She  was  absolutely  alone.  Old  Marie  and  Theophile 
were  not  people:  they  were  strangers,  creatures,  animals  — 
what  not.  She  scarcely  knew.  'Allies'  meant  nothing  to 
her  at  the  moment  but  marching  men.  Even  Edmund  — 
who  would  be  killed,  because  all  beautiful  things  were 
killed  unless  they  hid  in  caves  and  let  their  beauty  rot  in 
the  dark.  Fool  that  she  had  been  not  to  go  to  England 
while  there  was  time!  Fool  that  she  had  been  to  forget 
that  Edmund  Laye,  landing  in  England,  would  be  first  of 
all  a  Territorial  —  one  of  the  thousands  of  slim  reeds  on 
which  Kitchener  was  so  heavily  leaning.  She  had  been 
obsessed  with  peace:  sure  that  war  could  not  touch  her  or 
what  was  privately,  supremely,  hers.  She  was  a  creature 
of  peace;  a  little  doctrinaire  who  supposed  that,  in  the 
inverted  moral  world  in  which  she  walked,  right  made 
might.  There  was  a  deal  of  most  logical  self-pity  in  her 
tears.  How  did  any  of  it  concern  her,  that  she  should  be 
cooped  in  a  country  manor  to  await  horrors  from  unknown 
people?  Why  should  Edmund  Laye,  who  had  chosen  an 
antipodal  career,  be  dragged  back  to  present  himself  as  a 
mark  for  some  Prussian  shell?  The  senselessness  of  it 
angered  her.  Nations  meant  little  to  her;  the  cosmos 
nothing.  Alone  in  the  chapel,  she  treated  herself  to  a  vivid 
personal  rage.  And  still  the  strange  tumult,  that  was 
more  than  half  made  of  vibrations  too  slow  for  sound 
waves,  beat  upon  her  nerves  like  an  injury  to  the  internal 
ear. 

By  twilight,  the  physical  need  of  action  came  to  her. 
She  felt,  in  the  subtler  fibres  of  her  mind,  that  if  she  stayed 
longer  there  half  prone  in  her  worm-eaten  arm-chair, 
groveling  mentally  in  this  welter  of  concrete  alarms,  she 
should  sink  into  a  pit  whence  reason  could  not  rescue  her. 
She  had  been  so  calm  in  her  folly,  so  lulled  by  the  sense  of 
her  sacred  detachment  from  this  bloody  business,  so  sure 


A  MOTH  OF  PEACE  191 

that  neutrality  protected  you  from  fire  and  steel  even  in 
the  thickest  melee  —  she  could  not  have  been  more  ridicu 
lous  if  she  had  worn  a  dress  cut  out  of  the  Stars  and  Stripes. 
Now,  some  obscure  inhibition  told  her,  she  must  act.  She 
must  move  her  hands  and  feet,  limber  her  cramped  muscles, 
set  the  blood  flowing  properly  in  her  veins,  make  herself 
physically  normal,  or  her  worthless  mind  would  let  her  go 
mad.  She  must  not  think  of  death  or  outrage  or  torture. 

She  must  forget  the  things  she  had  heard  those  first 
days  at  Sezanne.  She  must  forget  the  gossip  of  Marie  and 
The*ophile  and  Seraphine,  inventing,  inventing,  with  a 
mediaeval  prolixity  and  a  racial  gift  for  the  macabre,  on 
chill  evenings  by  the  fire.  They  had  no  need  of  news. 
They  dug  up  out  of  the  bloody  deeps  of  the  past  things 
the  like  of  which  she  had  never  expected  to  hear.  She 
must  forget  —  shut  her  staring  mouth  and  forget.  What 
ever  visited  itself  on  Andecy  must  not  find  a  gibbering 
mistress  there.  Perhaps,  if  she  pretended  that  Edmund 
knew,  moment  by  moment,  what  she  was  doing,  she  could 
master  her  faltering  flesh  and  her  undisciplined  mind. 
She  had  lost  him  forever,  but  she  would  try  to  be  some  of 
the  things  he  thought  her.  Edmund  Laye  had  called  her 
flower-like.  Well:  flowers  were  broken,  but  they  did  not 
go  mad.  She  must  be  —  decent. 

Her  brisk  pacing  of  the  chapel  did  not  allay  her  fears, 
but  it  brought  back  to  her  a  sense  of  decorum.  Her  body 
had  never  lent  itself  to  an  immodest  gesture;  what  —  she 
caught  at  the  notion  —  could  be  more  immodest  than 
visible  fear?  So  gradually,  by  artificial  means,  she  brought 
herself  back  into  some  dignity;  scolding  and  shaking  her 
self  into  a  trooper's  demeanor.  She  could  not  trust  her 
mind,  but  perhaps  she  could  get  her  instincts  into  fighting 
form.  Cautiously  she  tried  them  —  as  you  try  a  crazy 
foothold  to  see  if  it  will  bear  your  weight.  Her  muscles 


192  A  MOTH  OF  PEACE 

seemed  to  respond:  suppleness,  strength,  coordination, 
were  reported  satisfactory.  She  thought  she  could  prom 
ise  not  to  fall  a-shivering  again.  The  noise  in  her  ears 
faded;  the  vibrations  ceased  to  rock  her  nerves.  Miss 
Stanley  flung  open  the  chapel  door,  and  walked  firmly, 
ignoring  echoes,  down  the  brick-paved  corridor  to  the 
kitchen. 

Marie,  The*ophile,  and  little  Jeanne  watched,  in  a  kind 
of  apathy,  the  pot  on  the  fire.  In  the  dim  corners  of  the 
big  kitchen,  Miss  Stanley  thought  she  saw  strange  figures. 
Inspection  revealed  a  few  frightened  women  and  children 
from  farms  that  had  once  been  dependencies  of  Andecy. 
Here  was  something  to  do  —  more  blessed  exercise  for 
hands  and  feet. 

'You,  Frangoise?  and  the  little  ones?  And  you,  Ma- 
thilde?  and  the  girl?  Good!  It  is  time  the  children  had 
food  and  went  to  bed.  We  must  economize  candles,  so 
we  will  all  eat  here.  The  dining-room,  in  half  an  hour, 
will  be  a  dormitory.  Jeanne  shall  sleep  in  my  room.  Milk 
and  gruel  for  the  little  ones,  Marie,  and  soupe  aux  choux 
for  the  rest  of  us.  Milk  we  will  use  while  we  have  it. 
Eggs  also.  We  cannot  expect  to  keep  the  livestock  for 
ever.  Bread  we  have  not  —  until  I  bake  it  in  my  own 
fashion.  It  may  come  to  that.  Jeanne,  you  will  eat  with 
us  older  ones.  Come  and  help  me  make  beds  for  the  chil 
dren.  Luckily,  there  are  cots  for  a  whole  community. 
In  half  an  hour '  —  she  took  out  her  watch  —  *  the  babies 
sup  and  say  their  prayers.  To-morrow,  I  prepare  the  chapel 
and  the  pupils'  old  dormitory  for  wounded.  Wounded 
there  will  be,  if  what  we  hear  from  Suzanne  —  though  they 
are  all  fools  in  Suzanne,  from  the  fat  mayor  down  —  be 
true.  My  fiance  is  at  the  front.  We  wait  here  for  our 
men,  hein?'  And  she  beckoned  to  Jeanne. 

She  had  made  her  speech  blindly,  recklessly  planning  as 


A  MOTH  OF  PEACE  193 

she  spoke,  thinking  that  if  she  could  convince  her  hearers 
she  could  perhaps  convince  herself.  She  looked  for  the 
effect  on  them  when  she  had  done.  The  speech  had 
worked.  If  it  worked  for  them,  it  must  work  for  her,  too. 
It  could  not  be  madness,  if  it  had  lighted  up  those  sodden 
faces.  And  as  she  looked  from  one  to  another,  she  saw  a 
flicker  of  pride,  of  patriotism,  reflected  in  their  eyes.  Re 
flected  from  what?  From  her,  without  doubt.  There 
must  have  been  pride  in  her  voice  and  glance  when  she 
spoke  of  Edmund  Laye.  Good!  That  was  the  line  to 
take.  There  should  be  a  brave  show:  she  would  work  her 
muscles  to  death  to  keep  it  going.  Every  due  emotion 
should  be  cultivated  in  each  limb  and  feature;  every  sur 
face  inch  of  skin  should  play  its  part.  The  drum  and  fife 
should  play  all  the  more  bravely  because  her  heart  was 
hollow.  Perhaps,  if  she  got  a  fair  start,  a  fine  physical 
impetus  toward  courage,  she  could  keep  it  up  to  the  end. 

*  Come,  Jeanne. '     She  beckoned  the  child. 

The  women  stirred,  and  the  children  huddled  against 
their  skirts  crept  out  upon  the  floor. 

'Theophile,  is  the  great  gate  locked?' 

The  old  man  shook  his  head  vaguely.  He  had  gone  near 
to  losing  his  few  wits  with  the  rumors  from  Suzanne  which 
his  ears  had  drunk  up  so  greedily.  His  shaken  mind  was 
wandering  windily  about  in  reminiscences  of  '70  and  leg 
ends  of  '15. 

'It  had  best  be  locked  at  once.     The  lantern,  Jeanne. 

Come.' 

The  child  looked  at  her  piteously. 

'  Oh,  very  well ! '  Miss  Stanley  pushed  her  gently  aside. 
'I  shall  not  need  it.  There  is  still  light  enough.  Fetch 
the  bowls  for  the  babies,  Jeanne.  We  must  all  get  to  bed, 
and  be  up  with  the  dawn. ' 

Alone,  she  left  the  house  and  crossed  the  innumerable 


194  A  MOTH  OF  PEACE 

cobblestones  of  the  huge  courtyard  to  the  outer  gate.  She 
knew  the  way  of  the  heavy  bolts  and  bars,  for  she  had 
often  escorted  Th6ophile  on  his  rounds  before  the  official 
coucher  of  the  household;  but  her  shaking  fingers  tapped 
the  rusty  iron  ineffectually.  She  loathed  her  fingers: 
insubordinate  little  beasts!  She  struck  her  right  hand 
smartly  with  her  left,  her  left  with  her  right,  to  punish 
them  with  real  pain.  The  fingers  steadied;  she  drove  the 
foolish,  antiquated  bolts  home. 

Something  white  fluttered  about  her  feet  in  the  twilight : 
the  hens  had  not  been  shut  up.  Miss  Stanley  was  very 
angry,  for  a  moment,  with  The"ophile;  then  angry  with 
herself  for  her  anger.  Theophile  was  frightened  because 
he  knew:  '70  had  been  the  moment  of  his  prime.  She 
did  not  know;  she  had  no  right  to  be  frightened.  Tales  of 
the  Civil  War,  she  remembered  now,  had  always  bored  her; 
she  had  never  listened  to  them.  Her  duty  now  was  to 
secure  the  poultry.  They  must  have  eggs  while  they  could, 
and  chicken  broth  for  the  children.  Mathilde's  little  girl 
was  a  weakling.  So  she  ran  hither  and  yon,  trying  to  drive 
the  silly  handful  toward  the  little  grange  where  they  were 
kept.  With  traditional  idiocy,  they  resisted;  and  the  last 
stragglers  she  lifted  and  imprisoned  ruthlessly  in  her  skirt. 
She  hated  the  creatures;  to  touch  them  made  her  flesh 
crawl;  but  at  last  she  got  them  all  in,  squawking,  and 
fastened  the  door  upon  them.  How  like  the  stupid  things, 
to  make  extra  trouble  because  there  was  a  war!  Her 
anger  against  them  was  quite  serious,  and  sank  into  proper 
insignificance  only  when  her  task  was  done. 

A  stonewall,  continuing  the  house  wall  all  the  way  round, 
bounded  the  courtyard;  but  through  the  grille  she  could 
see  rocket-like  sputters  of  flame  far  off  on  the  horizon,  and 
here  and  there  a  patch  of  light  in  the  sky  which  meant 
fires  burning  steadily  beneath.  The  pounding  vibrations 


A  MOTH  OF  PEACE  195 

had  ceased.  There  was  trouble,  a  mighty  trouble,  upon 
them  all;  and  with  the  dawn,  perhaps,  all  the  things  those 
chattering  fools  by  the  fire  had  spent  their  phrases  on. 

Strangest  of  all  to  her  was  the  sudden  thought  that 
Edmund,  separated  from  her  now  by  the  innumerable 
leagues  of  destiny,  might  be,  as  the  crow  flies,  not  so  far 
away.  A  few  fatal  miles  might  be  replacing,  even  now,  the 
friendly,  familiar  ocean  whose  division  of  the  lovers  had 
been  a  mere  coquetry  of  Time.  On  that  thought  she  must 
not  dwell;  besides  —  irony  returned  to  her  at  last  —  did 
she  not  gather  from  those  idiots  within  that  all  soldiers  one 
ever  saw  were  Germans?  One's  own  armies  were  routed 
somewhere;  but  one  encountered,  one's  self,  only  the  vic 
tors,  ever.  Then  the  jealous  captain  to  whom  she  had 
given  the  command  reminded  her  that  such  reflections 
meant  mutiny. 

Slim,  straight,  hollowed  out  with  fear,  but  walking  deli 
cately  ahead,  she  went  back  to  the  house  and  superin 
tended  the  babies'  supper.  Then  the  grown-ups  ate- 
standing  about  the  table  as  at  the  Passover,  faces  half- 
averted  toward  the  door  —  and  she  marshaled  them  all  to 
their  appointed  sleeping-places.  Marie  and  Theophile  ab 
dicated  their  dominion  with  an  uncouth  relief.  If  made 
moiselle,  so  shy,  so  small,  could  be  so  sure  of  what  they 
ought  to  do  —  doubtless  hers  was  a  great  brain  in  a  frail 
form.  After  prayers,  in  which  Miss  Stanley  herself  joined, 
borrowing  a  chapelet,  they  went  off  to  snore  peacefully  in 
the  guardianship  of  that  great  brain  so  opportunely  dis 
covered. 

'You  have  not  an  American  flag?'  old  Marie  asked,  as 
she  shuffled  off. 

Theophile,  past  any  coherent  reflections,  was  mumbling 
over  the  dying  fire. 


196  A  MOTH  OF  PEACE 

*  No,  nothing  of  the  sort.     I  am  sorry.     I  should  use  it 
if  I  had.' 

'You  could  not  make  one?' 

*  Impossible,  to-night.     To-morrow  I  will  see.' 

Marie  apologetically  offered  a  last  suggestion  to  the 
great  brain.  '  A  white  flag?  It  would  do  no  harm  to  have 
it  ready.  Frangoise  swears  they  are  in  Suzanne  to-night. ' 

'I  will  see.     Allez  vous  coucher.' 

And  Miss  Stanley  turned  on  her  heel  and  sought  the  lit 
tle  room  where  Jeanne  was  already  restlessly  dreaming. 

Save  the  babies,  Andecy  found  no  deep  sleep  that  night. 
The  old  people  napped  and  woke  and  napped  again,  ac 
cording  to  their  habit.  The  mothers  rose  and  walked 
beside  their  children's  cots,  then  fell  limply  back  and 
dozed.  Miss  Stanley  slept  from  sheer  exhaustion  until  an 
hour  before  dawn.  Then  she  rose  and  dressed  herself, 
and,  when  dressed,  sent  Jeanne  to  wake  her  grandparents. 
Whatever  the  day  might  bring,  it  should  not  find  them 
either  asleep  or  fasting.  They  would  eat,  if  it  was  to  be 
their  last  meal. 

Alone  in  her  room,  by  candle-light,  Miss  Stanley  made  a 
white  flag  out  of  a  linen  skirt.  She  sewed  hastily  but 
firmly,  that  it  might  be  no  flimsier  than  she  could  help. 
By  the  first  streaks  of  daylight,  she  groped  for  and  found, 
in  a  lumber-room,  a  long  stick  to  fasten  it  to  —  probably, 
it  flashed  across  her,  Madam  Frangoise  de  Paule's  cane, 
never  buried,  as  Anne  Marmont  had  hoped.  When  the 
flag  was  finished,  she  loathed  it:  loathed  its  symbolism, 
loathed  its  uselessness.  No:  whatever  happened,  she 
would  have  nothing  to  do  with  that.  What  could  be  more 
humiliating  than  to  hold  up  a  white  flag  in  vain?  Another 
idea  came  to  her;  and  while  breakfast  was  preparing  and 
the  children  were  being  dressed,  she  carried  it  swiftly  into 
execution.  Slashing  a  great  cross  out  of  a  scarlet  cape, 


A  MOTH  OF  PEACE  197 

she  sewed  it  firmly  to  the  white  ground.     That  she  might 
hang  to  the  dove-cot,  after  breakfasting. 

She  carried  it  martially  with  her  into  the  great  kitchen, 
and  placed  it  in  a  corner.  The  sun  itself  was  hardly  up, 
but  the  children  brought  the  flag  out  into  the  firelight  and 
old  Marie  was  jubilant.  The  wonderful  idea!  The  great 
brain  of  mademoiselle!  She  fussed  almost  happily  over 
the  simmering  skillet  of  milk.  But  the  great  brain  was 
pondering  apart  in  the  lessening  shadows.  Better  the 
American  flag,  if  she  could  manage  it.  She  would  beg  an 
old  blue  smock  of  Theophile's,  for  she  had  nothing  herself. 
Those  wretched  stars !  It  would  take  her  a  long  morning; 
and  she  felt  convinced  that  this  day's  sun  would  not  rise 
peacefully  to  the  zenith.  This  thing  she  had  made  was  a 
lie.  Incalculable  harm  could  be  done  by  assuming  a  badge 
you  had  no  right  to  —  incalculable  harm  to  those  who  had 
the  right.  She  was  mortally  afraid;  but  she  would  not 
do  anything  in  pure  panic.  That  would  make  it  worse  for 
every  one  in  the  end. 

An  American  flag :  it  must  be  made.  How  many  states 
were  there?  She  had  no  notion,  but  she  fancied  they  were 
as  the  sands  of  the  sea.  It  would  take  a  woman  all  day  to 
cut  out  those  stars  and  sew  them  to  a  blue  field  hacked  out 
of  Theophile's  smock.  And  what  a  makeshift  banner,  in 
the  end!  Even  if  the  enemy  politely  waited  for  her  to 
finish  it,  would  they  not  detect  it  at  once?  Was  not  that 
the  kind  of  thing  every  German  knew  better  than  she  - 
how  many  little  silly  stars  there  were,  safe  and  far  away, 
sending  senators  to  Washington?  A  sullen  tide  of  mirth 
was  let  loose  in  her  far  below  the  surface.  Here  she  was, 
quivering  with  terror,  with  a  lot  of  foolish  livestock  on  her 
hands  —  livestock  that  she  could  not  give  up  to  slaughter 
as  if  they  had  been  the  sheep  that  they  really  were. 

Miss  Stanley  caught  up  one  of  the  children  to  her  lap 


198  A  MOTH  OF  PEACE 

and  fed  it  great  spoonfuls  of  warm  milk  —  choking  it  hope 
lessly.  Luckily  the  mother  was  too  apathetic  to  reproach 
her.  She  could  not  even  feed  a  child  without  wetting  it  all 
over!  Disgusted,  she  put  the  child  down  again.  It 
whimpered,  and  the  mother,  roused,  moved  over  to  it. 
Miss  Stanley  looked  at  her  cup.  Chocolate  —  no  coffee, 
for  the  coffee  was  gone.  Coffee  might  have  cleared  her 
brain,  but  this  mess  would  do  nothing  for  her.  Still,  she 
drank  it.  And  gradually,  as  their  hunger  was  appeased, 
they  crept  about  her.  Even  those  who  did  not  move  their 
chairs  turned  and  faced  her.  She  could  not  meet  so  many 
eyes.  She  had  nothing  to  do  with  them  —  these  tellers  of 
old  wives'  tales,  who  expected  her  to  deliver  them  from 
the  horrors  their  own  lips  had  fabricated.  Why  did  they 
stare  at  her  as  if  she  might  have  an  idol's  power  over 
events?  Whispering,  almost  inaudibly,  their  strung  and 
beaded  prayers,  yet  blasphemously  looking  to  her! 

The  shadows  still  lessened  in  the  great  kitchen.  The 
sun  lay  in  level  streaks  on  the  centre  of  the  stone  floor,  and 
even  the  twilight  in  the  corners  was  big  with  noon.  The 
women  sat  in  a  helpless  huddle,  not  knowing  how  to  go 
about  the  abnormal  tasks  of  the  abnormal  day.  The 
far-off  thunders  of  the  plain  began  again :  vibrations  as  of 
earthquake  first,  then  explicit  sounds,  unmistakable  and 
portentous.  To-day,  you  could  distinguish  among  those 
clamors.  Miss  Stanley,  with  the  first  sounds,  expected  to 
have  a  tiny  mob  to  quell;  but  their  apathy  did  not  leave 
them.  Even  the  children  turned  that  steady,  hypnotized 
stare  on  her.  And  then  Jeanne  —  how  could  she  not  have 
missed  Jeanne  from  the  assembly  ? — ran  down  the  cor 
ridor  with  a  sharp  clatter. 

'  They  are  there !  Soldiers  —  on  horseback  —  at  the 
gate!' 

And  indeed  now,  in  the  sudden  tragic  hush,  Miss  Stan- 


A  MOTH  OF  PEACE  199 

ley  could  hear  the  faint  metallic  thrill  and  tinkle  of  iron 
bars,  at  a  distance,  struck  sharply.  Old  Th6ophile  roused 
himself  as  if  by  unconscious  antediluvian  habit,  but  Marie 
plucked  him  back  and  ran  for  the  flag  with  the  scarlet 
cloth  cross.  This  she  thrust  into  the  American  girl's  hand. 
No  one  else  moved,  except  that  Mathilde  flung  her  heavy 
skirt  over  her  little  girl's  head. 

For  one  moment,  Miss  Stanley  stood  irresolute.  She 
had  never  dreamed  of  such  a  tyranny  of  irrelevant  fact. 
She  must,  for  life  or  death,  —  for  honor,  at  all  events,  — 
respond  to  a  situation  for  which  nothing,  since  her  birth, 
had  prepared  her.  Peace  had  been  to  her  as  air  and  sun 
light  —  the  natural  condition  of  life.  This  was  like  being 
flung  into  a  vacuum;  it  was  death  to  her  whole  organism. 
Yet,  somehow,  she  was  still  alive. 

Irony  took  her  by  the  throat;  and  then  the  thought  of 
Edmund  Laye  —  linked,  himself,  with  events  like  these, 
riding  or  marching  beneath  just  such  skies,  on  just  such  a 
planet,  under  just  such  a  law.  Never  had  there  been, 
really,  immunity  like  that  which  she  had  fancied  to  be  the 
very  condition  of  human  existence.  It  was  all  human,  with 
a  wild  inclusiveness  that  took  her  breath.  And,  whatever 
happened,  paralysis  like  that  which  even  now  crept  slowly 
up  her  limbs,  was  of  the  devil.  Against  that  last  ignominy 
she  braced  herself. 

Her  muscles  responded  miraculously  to  her  call  for  help, 
and  she  felt  her  feet  moving  across  the  floor.  If  feet 
could  move,  hands  could.  She  rolled  up  the  little  banner 
and  threw  it  in  the  very  centre  of  the  fire.  It  occurred  to 
her  as  a  last  insult  that  she  did  not  know  enough  German 
even  to  proclaim  her  nationality;  but  she  did  not  falter 
again.  Some  residuum  of  human  courage  out  of  the  past 
kept  her  body  loyal  —  some  archaic  fashion  of  the  flesh 
that  dominated  the  newness  of  the  mind.  Past  genera- 


200  A  MOTH  OF  PEACE 

tions  squared  her  shoulders  for  her,  and  gave  her  lips  a 
phrase  to  practice. 

As  she  passed  down  the  corridor,  she  flung  each  door 
wide  open.  She  paused,  a  mere  fraction  of  an  instant,  in 
the  big  front  door  of  the  house;  but  from  there  she  could 
see  only  a  confusion  of  helmets,  and  horses  nosing  at  the 
grille.  Almost  immediately  she  passed  through  the  door 
and  walked,  hatless,  her  arms  hanging  stiffly  at  her  sides, 
across  the  innumerable  cobblestones,  to  the  gate. 


IN  NO  STRANGE  LAND 

BY   KATHARINE    BUTLER 

HE  was  in  the  heart  of  the  crowd,  in  it,  and  of  it  —  the 
crowd  of  late  afternoon  whose  simultaneous  movement  is 
the  expression  of  a  common  wish  to  cease  to  be  a  crowd. 
His  was  one  of  the  thousand  faces  that  are  almost  tragical 
with  weariness,  tragical  without  thought.  At  five  o'clock 
the  sparkle  of  the  morning  is  forgotten.  There  is  no  seek 
ing  of  hidden  treasure  in  the  face  opposite,  for  the  face 
opposite,  whosesoever  it  may  be,  has  become  too  hatefully 
intrusive  with  its  own  burden  to  yield  any  light  of  recogni- 


was  running  down  the  Elevated  stairs  at  the  ap 
pointed  minute,  when  his  foot  slipped  and  he  fell.  It 
seemed  hardly  a  second  before  he  was  up  again,  angered 
by  the  sudden  congestion  about  him.  One  white-cheeked 
woman  put  her  hand  to  her  mouth  and  gave  a  cry. 

'  Let  me  by  !  '  he  exclaimed,  straining  to  break  through  the 
fast-pressing  barrier.  The  very  throng  of  which  he  had 
been  an  undistinguishable  member  had  suddenly  closed 
round  him,  focusing  its  Argus  glance  upon  him,  nearer 
and  nearer,  and  it  was  only  by  extreme  struggle  that  he  was 
able  to  push  away  and  be  free. 

He  sat  down  in  the  train,  breathless  from  his  final  sprint. 
He  felt  as  if  the  incident  had  roused  him  from  some  deep 
lethargy  of  which  he  had  hitherto  been  unaware.  With 
his  quickened  pulse,  his  thoughts  ran  more  quickly,  more 
crystally  onward.  He  felt  as  if  a  wonderful  but  unknown 
piece  of  luck  had  befallen  him.  An  ecstatic  sense  of  for 
tune  made  him  wonder  at  himself. 


202  IN  NO  STRANGE  LAND 

'What  am  I  so  damned  happy  about,  all  of  a  sudden?' 
he  thought. 

He  made  an  indifferent  survey  of  his  fellow  passengers, 
and  as  he  noted  the  familiar  heads  and  shoulders,  he  had  a 
most  curious  sensation  of  utter  bliss,  and  thanked  heaven 
that  his  lot  was  not  theirs. 

*  Am  I  dreaming? '  he  asked-himself .    '  Am  I  about  to  dis 
cover  a  gold-mine,  or  what?' 

As  the  train  moved  out  he  sank  comfortably  back  into 
his  seat,  and  with  his  chin  on  his  hand  he  took  up  his  accus 
tomed  nightly  gaze  on  the  outer  landscape.  His  thoughts 
ran  back  to  the  morning.  He  saw  the  room  where  he  had 
gone  to  wake  his  children.  /§±  was  a  large,  square  room, 
with  colored  nursery  pictures  on\the  walls  and  a  collection 
of  battered  toys  in  the  corner,  ^e  place  was  fresh  and 
cool  with  the  sparkling  air  of  early  May,  and  through  the 
open  windows  he  had  seen  the  lawn  thick  spread  with  cob 
webs.  And  in  each  of  the  three  small  beds  a  pretty  child  of 
his  lay  stretched  in  a  childish  attitude  of  sleep.  Very  ten 
der  they  looked,  very  lovable,  in  their  naive  curlings-up, 
a  young,  shapely  arm  flung  out  in  the  restlessness  of  ap 
proaching  day,  lips  and  nostrils  just  stirred  by  the  tiny 
motion  of  their  breathing,  and  an  unbelievable,  blossomy 
hand  spread  in  fairy  gesture  across  a  pillow.^  As  he  walked 
through  the  room,  he  heard  the  boy  John  murmur  in  his 
waking  dreams.  Alicia  sat  up  suddenly,  as  thin  and 
straight  as  a  new  reed  in  her  prim  nightgown.  Her  eye 
lashes  were  black  and  her  eyes  were  heather-purple. 

*  Father!'  she  had  cried,  'I  know  what  day  it  is!'    And 
in  a  moment  three  small  whirlwinds  stood  up  on  the  floor, 
dropped  their  nightgowns,  and  began  to  fling  their  arms 
and  legs  into  their  morning  apparel,  and  there  was  a  great 
deal  of  loud  conversation  full  of  the  presaga  ;of  festivity. 
Their  father  had  forgotten  that  he  had  al)irthday  until  his 


IN  NO  STRANGE  LAND  203 

wife  and  children  had  recovered  it  from  obscurity  and 
made  it  a  day  of  days. 

As  he  left  the  house  he  had  looked  at  Maggie,  his  fragile, 
high-hearted  wife,  and  urged  her  not  to  get  tired  with  the 
nonsense.  She  had  looked  back  at  him  with  mock  haughti 
ness  and  warned  him  not  to  be  late  to  supper,  or  make  light 
of  feast  days.  He  did  not  notice  her  words;  he  was  curi 
ously  unable  to  grow  accustomed  to  her  face.A/The  more  he 
saw  it,  the  more  unbelievably  beautiful,  the  Wre  eloquent 
in  delicate  and  gentle  meanings,  it  became  to  him^  She 
looked  into  his  eyes  quickly,  with  a  question  for  his  sudden 
absent-mindedness. 

'Because  your  face  is  so  heavenly,'  he  answered 


As  the  train  moved  on,  he  saw  that  a  fresh,  green  haze 
had  begun  to  veil  and  adorn  the  landscape  which  through 
the  cold  months  had  been  so  gaunt  and  ugly  to  his  daily 
observation,  ^heliint  of  fever  was  in  the  air  —  the  slight 
madness  that  accompanies  the  pangs  of  seasonal  change. 
*^ove  glowed  in  his  heart  and  touched  all  the  veins  of  his 
body  with  its  winelike  warmth,  its  inimitable  winelike 
bouquet.  'Life  is  sweet!  Life  is  sweet!'  his  body  said, 
echoing  and  reechoing  through  all  the  channels  of  his  being. 
And  as  the  train  carried  him  on  through  the  fields  and 
woods  outside  the  city,  something  almost  like  the  fervor  of 
genius  took  hold  of  him,  plucking  at  his  heart  for  words, 
crying  to  him  out  of  the  silent  fields  and  woods  for  words, 
words  ! 

^k.  slight  rain  was  in  the  air,  darkening  the  twilight,  when 
he  stepped  down  from  the  train.  He  was  grateful  for  the 
darkness,  for  the  soft  air  on  his  face,  grateful  indeed  for  the 
silence.  Evening  had  brought  him  back  to  his  obscure 
town,  a  small  station  marked  by  one  lantern  swung  in  the 
stiff  grasp  of  an  ancient  man.  The  usual  handful  of  three 


204  IN  NO  STRANGE  LAND 

or  four  passengers  alighted,  and  exchanging  remarks  up 
and  down  the  village  street,  quickly  disappeared  within 
the  generous  portals  of  their  hereditary  houses^  The  sound 
of  a  door  opening  and  shutting,  the  pleasant  light  of  lamps, 
the  brief  glimpse  of  a  shining  supper- table,  the  departing 
whistle  of  the  train  as  it  shot  away  through  field  and 
thicket,  and  the  remote  town  was  undisturbed  again. 
-•"He  was  grateful  indeed  for  the  nightly  renascence  of  his 
spirit  in  the  clear  air  *a«4 -gracious  heaven  of  the  place. 
On  this  May  night  of  mist  and  darkness  he  took  up  again" 
the  thread  of  his  real  existence.  Only  to-night  it  seemed 
more  golden,  more  palpitating  with  hope  and  mystery  — 
a  still  moment  wherein  one  could  only  half  distinguish 
between  the  future  and  the  past.  He  was  thirty  years 
old  to-day,  he  told  himself,  and  he  had  a  wife  and  three 
children.  A  short  swift  time  it  had  been!  Had  he  them 
then,  or  was  it  a  dream?  Where  were  his  footsteps  taking 
him  down  the  empty  street?  To  Babylon,  or  some  lost 
coast  of  gods  and  visions?  jHe  turned  a  familiar  corner. 
A  fresh  breeze  struck  his  face  with  a  sudden  shower  of 
drops,  and  he  saw  in  the  dim  light  the  heads  of  crocuses 
shaking  in  the  grass  beside  the  walk.  He  flung  open  the 
door  and  heard  Maggie's  voice  in  the  dining-room  and  the 
laughter  of  Alicia. 

'Hallo!'  he  called;  and  getting  no  answer,  he  walked 
into  the  dining-room.  There  was  a  circle  of  candles  on  the 
table,  unlighted  as  yet,  and  a  bowl  of  flowers. 

Maggie  was  sitting  by  the  fire,  cracking  nuts,  and  telling 
a  story  to  the  children  who  sat  about  her  in  white  frocks, 
the  firelight  on  their  faces.  wThe  boy  John  was  staring  into 
the  flame  with  the  look  that  made  his  mother  believe  that 
she  had  given  habitation  to  a  poet's  soul,  and  that  in 
spired  her  to  tell  the  most  extravagant  tales  of  wonder  that 


IN  NO  STRANGE  LAND  205 

her  brain  could  conjure^/ Vibrant  mystery  rang  in  the  low 
monotony  of  her  voice. 

Their  father  checked  himself  at  the  doorway,  thinking 
that  he  had  done  violence  to  the  etiquette  of  birthdays 
by  allowing  himself  to  view  the  preparation.  He  laughed 
and  stepped  out  again. 

'Oh,  I  see  you  don't  want  me.  I  really  did  n't  look  at  a 
thing ! '  And  he  called  back  from  the  stair,  '  How  soon  may 
I  come?' 

He  heard  nothing  but  the  cracking  of  nuts,  Maggie's 
enchanting  tone,  and  the  short  laughter  of  Alicia. 

'O  Maggie,  dear!'  he  called  again. 

No  reply,  —  only  the  soft  continuance  of  the  magic  tale 
in  the  inner  room. 

'By  the  way,'  —  He  stepped  down  a  stair.  'By  the 
way,  Maggie,  may  I  see  you  a  second?' 

The  story  had  ceased,  but  Maggie  neither  answered  nor 
came.  He  stepped  to  the  dining-room  door  with  a  curious 
sense  of  apprehension.  There  was  a  touch  of  surprise  in 
his  tone. 

'Maggie!' 

She  looked  round  and  on  her  face  was  the  quick  and 
strange  reflection  of  his  bewilderment.  Yet  she  looked 
beyond  him,  through  him,  as  if  he  had  not  been  there. 
She  boy  John  was  still  staring  into  the  fire,  folded  deep  in 
the  robe  of  enthrallment  his  mother  had  made.  As  if 
from  the  hushed  heart  of  it,  he  said^^-*^'  -.  ^ 

'What  did  you  hear,  mother?'     'C^votA  ^\^\J^^. 

She  gave  him  a  startled  glance,  and  then  she  smiled  upon 
him,  tenderly,  warmly. 

'Only  the  wind  outside,  dear  child.  It  is  a  rainy  and 
windy  night.' 

She  looked  again  toward  the  door  of  the  room. 

'Maggie!' 


206  IN  NO  STRANGE  LAND 

Such  was  the  sudden  torture  and  fear  in  his  breast,  he 
could  scarcely  lift  his  voice.  He  put  one  hand  to  his  head 
and  stepped  nearer  his  wife. 

£^Cs  if  to  find  tranquillity  in  a  moment  of  nervousness, 
she  rested  her  soft  glance  on  Alicia,  the  child  of  delicate 
handstand  delicate  thoughts. 

<^Sobbie,  the  imffoffaroafe  youngest,  leaned  against  his 
mother  with  heavy  and  troubled  eyes. 

'I  thought  I  heard  something,  mother,'  he  said. 
She  bent  over  him,  visibly  trembling. 

*  What  did  you  think  it  was,  darling? '  she  asked. 

*  I  thought  it  was  the  rain  hitting  the  window  and  trying 
to  get  in.' 

She  laughed  and  rose  uneasily  from  her  chair,  and  taking 
the  child  in  her  arms,  she  walked  up  and  down  before  the 
friendly  fire.  For  a  long  time  there  was  no  sound  in  the 
room  except  the  vague  sound  of  wind,  of  flame,  and  of 
Maggie's  footsteps. 

Suddenly  Robbie  gave  a  little  cry  from  her  shoulder. 

'Why  doesn't  father  come?' 

The  man  rushed  toward  his  wife  to  clasp  her  and  the 
child  in  his  arms,  crying,  — 

'O  Maggie!' 

She  sank  to  her  chair,  trembling  and  stroking  the  head 
of  her  child  with  fearful  compassion. 

*O  heavy  mystery!  *  Is  this  life,'  he  cried,  'or  death?' 
He  stretched  out  his  arms  in  vain .^The  impassable  gulf 
lay  between  them.  Then,  as  he  turned  away  from  her,  the 
walls  of  the  house  grew  heavy  upon  him,  the  fire  sent  forth 
a  smothering  heat,  and  incomprehensible,  unendurable 
became  the  spectacle  of  human  grief. 

x^He  went  toward  the  door.  Hesitating  he  looked  back 
again.  Robbi?sTace  was  buried  in  her  breast;  her  eyes 
were  deep  and  dark  with  the  half -guessed  truth. 


IN  NO  STRANGE  LAND  207 

There  came  a  sound  at  the  door,  that  caused  Maggie  to 
start  piteously.  He  forgot  his  desire  to  be  free  in  his  desire 
to  clasp  her  again  and  console  her. 

She  left  the  children  and  went  unhesitating  and  pale  to 
answer  the  summons,  he  hovering  beside  her.  What  a 
flower  she  looked  and  how  fragilely  shaken,  like  the  rain- 
beaten  crocuses  in  the  grass! 

As  the  door  opened  he  saw  two  men  standing  in  the  dark 
and  wet.  For  a  moment  neither  spoke.  One  looked  at  the 
other,  and  broke  out,  — 

'You  tell  her,  for  God's  sake!' 

This  came  to  him  dimly  as  if  he  were  a  thousand  miles 
away.  He  heard  no  more.  He  had  gone  out  into  the  wind 
and  rain.  It  struck  his  breast  again  with  its  incomparable 
sweetness.  He  saw  dark  hills  lying  before  him.  Gateways 
long  barred  within  him  rushed  open  with  a  sound  of  singing 
and  triumph.  He  felt  no  more  sorrow,  no  more  pity,  — 
only  incredible  freedom  and  joy.  The  stone  had  been 
rolled  away. 

*  Death  is  sweet!  Death  is  sweet!'  echoed  and  reechoed 
through  all  the  passages  of  his  beingx^Jle  smelt  the  icy 
breath  of  mountains,  and  he  knew  the  vast  solitude  of  the 
plains  of  the  sea.  The  veins  of  his  body  were  the  great 
rivers  of  the  earth,  sparkling  in  even  splendor.  His  head 
was  among  the  stars,  he  saw  the  sun  and  the  moon  to- 
gejlier,  and  the  four  seasons  were  marshaled  about  him. 
•^The  clouds  of  the  sky  parted  and  fell  away,  and  across  the 
blue  sward  of  heaven  he  saw  the  procession  of  glowing, 
gracious  figures  whose  broken  shadow  is  cast  with  such 
vague  majesty  across  the  face  of  the  earth. 


LITTLE  BROTHER 

BY   MADELEINE    Z.    DOTY 

IT  was  a  warm  summer's  day  in  late  August.  No  men 
were  visible  in  the  Belgian  hamlet.  The  women  reaped  in 
the  fields;  the  insects  hummed  in  the  dry  warm  air;  the 
house  doors  stood  open.  On  a  bed  in  a  room  in  one  of  the 
cottages  lay  a  woman.  Beside  her  sat  a  small  boy.  He 
was  still,  but  alert.  His  eyes  followed  the  buzzing  flies. 
With  a  bit  of  paper  he  drove  the  intruders  from  the  bed. 
His  mother  slept.  It  was  evident  from  the  pale,  drawn 
face  that  she  was  ill. 

Suddenly  the  dreaming,  silent  summer  day  was  broken 
by  the  sound  of  clattering  hoofs.  Some  one  was  riding 
hurriedly  through  the  town. 

The  woman  moved  uneasily.  Her  eyes  opened.  She 
smiled  at  the  little  boy. 

6 What  is  it,  dear?' 

The  boy  went  to  the  window.  Women  were  gathering 
in  the  street.  He  told  his  mother  and  hurried  from  the 
room.  Her  eyes  grew  troubled.  In  a  few  minutes  the 
child  was  back,  breathless  and  excited. 

*O,  mother,  mother,  the  Germans  are  coming!' 

The  woman  braced  herself  against  the  shock.  At  first 
she  hardly  grasped  the  news.  Then  her  face  whitened,  her 
body  quivered  and  became  convulsed.  Pain  sprang  to 
her  eyes,  driving  out  fear;  beads  of  perspiration  stood  on 
her  forehead;  a  little  animal  cry  of  pain  broke  from  her 
lips.  The  boy  gazed  at  her  paralyzed,  horrified;  then  he 
flung  himself  down  beside  the  bed  and  seized  his  mother's 
hand. 


LITTLE  BROTHER  209 

'What  is  it,  mother,  what  is  it?' 

The  paroxysm  of  pain  passed;  the  woman's  body  re 
laxed,  her  hand  reached  for  the  boy's  head  and  stroked  it. 
'It's  all  right,  my  son.'  Then  as  the  pain  began  again, 
'Quick,  sonny,  bring  auntie.' 

The  boy  darted  from  the  room.  Auntie  was  the  woman 
doctor  of  B.  He  found  her  in  the  Square.  The  towns 
people  were  wildly  excited.  The  Germans  were  coming. 
But  the  boy  thought  only  of  his  mother.  He  tugged  at 
auntie's  sleeve.  His  frenzied  efforts  at  last  caught  her 
attention.  She  saw  he  was  in  need  and  went  with  him. 

Agonizing  little  moans  issued  from  the  house  as  they 
entered.  In  an  instant  the  midwife  understood.  She 
wanted  to  send  the  boy  away,  but  she  must  have  help. 
Who  was  there  to  fetch  and  carry?  The  neighbors,  terri 
fied  at  their  danger,  were  making  plans  for  departure.  She 
let  the  boy  stay. 

Through  the  succeeding  hour  a  white-faced  little  boy 
worked  manfully.  His  mother's  cries  wrung  his  childish 
heart.  Why  did  babies  come  this  way?  He  could  not 
understand.  Would  she  die?  Had  his  birth  given  such 
pain?  If  only  she  would  speak!  And  once,  as  if  realizing 
his  necessity,  his  mother  did  speak. 

'It's  all  right,  my  son;  it  will  soon  be  over.' 

That  message  brought  comfort;  but  his  heart  failed 
when  the  end  came.  He  rushed  to  the  window  and  put  his 
little  hands  tight  over  his  ears.  It  was  only  for  a  moment. 
He  was  needed.  His  mother's  moans  had  ceased  and  a 
baby's  cry  broke  the  stillness. 

The  drama  of  birth  passed,  the  midwife  grew  restless. 
She  became  conscious  of  the  outer  world.  There  were 
high  excited  voices;  wagons  clattered  over  stones;  moving 
day  had  descended  on  the  town.  She  turned  to  the  win 
dow.  Neighbors  with  wheelbarrows  and  carts  piled  high 


210  LITTLE  BROTHER 

with  household  possessions  hurried  by.  They  beckoned 
to  her. 

For  a  moment  the  woman  hesitated.  She  looked  at  the 
mother  on  the  bed,  nestling  her  babe  to  her  breast;  then 
the  panic  of  the  outside  world  seized  her.  Quickly  she 
left  the  room. 

The  small  boy  knelt  at  his  mother's  bedside,  his  little 
face  against  hers.  Softly  he  kissed  the  pale  cheek.  The 
boy's  heart  had  become  a  man's.  He  tried  by  touch  and 
look  to  speak  his  love,  his  sympathy,  his  admiration.  His 
mother  smiled  at  him  as  she  soothed  the  baby,  glad  to  be 
free  from  pain.  But  presently  the  shouted  order  of  the 
departing  townspeople  reached  her  ears.  She  stirred 
uneasily.  Fear  crept  into  her  eyes.  Passionately  she 
strained  her  little  one  to  her. 

'How  soon,  little  son,  how  soon?' 

The  lad,  absorbed  in  his  mother,  had  forgotten  the 
Germans.  With  a  start,  he  realized  the  danger.  His 
new-born  manhood  took  command.  His  father  was  at  the 
front.  He  must  protect  his  mother  and  tiny  sister.  His 
mother  was  too  ill  to  move,  but  they  ought  to  get  away. 
Who  had  a  wagon  ?  He  hurried  to  the  window,  but  already 
even  the  stragglers  were  far  down  the  road.  All  but  three 
of  the  horses  had  been  sent  to  the  front.  Those  three  were 
now  out  of  sight  with  their  overloaded  wagons.  The  boy 
stood  stupefied  and  helpless.  The  woman  on  the  bed 
stirred. 

*  My  son, '  she  called.     *  My  son. ' 

He  went  to  her. 

'You  must  leave  me  and  go  on.' 

'I  can't,  mother.' 

The  woman  drew  the  boy  down  beside  her.  She  knew 
the  struggle  to  come.  How  could  she  make  him  under 
stand  that  his  life  and  the  baby's  meant  more  to  her  than 


LITTLE  BROTHER  £11 

her  own.  Lovingly  she  stroked  the  soft  cheek.  It  was  a 
grave,  determined  little  face  with  very  steady  eyes. 

'Son,  dear,  think  of  little  sister.  The  Germans  won't 
bother  with  babies.  There  is  n't  any  milk.  Mother 
has  n't  any  for  her.  You  must  take  baby  in  your  strong 
little  arms  and  run  —  run  with  her  right  out  of  this  land 
into  Holland. ' 

But  he  could  not  be  persuaded.  The  mother  under 
stood  that  love  and  a  sense  of  duty  held  him.  She  gathered 
the  baby  in  her  arms  and  tried  to  rise,  but  the  overtaxed 
heart  failed  and  she  fell  back  half -fainting.  The  boy 
brought  water  and  bathed  her  head  until  the  tired  eyes 
opened. 

'  Little  son,  it  will  kill  mother  if  you  don't  go. ' 

The  boy's  shoulders  shook.  He  knelt  by  the  bed.  A 
sob  broke  from  him.  Then  there  came  the  faint  far- 
distant  call  of  the  bugle.  Frantically  the  mother  gathered 
up  her  baby  and  held  it  out  to  the  boy. 

'For  mother's  sake,  son,  for  mother.' 

In  a  flash,  the  boy  understood.  His  mother  had  risked 
her  life  for  the  tiny  sister.  She  wanted  the  baby  saved 
more  than  anything  in  the  world.  He  dashed  the  tears 
from  his  eyes.  He  wound  his  arms  about  his  mother  in 
a  long  passionate  embrace. 

'1 11  take  her,  mother;  I'll  get  her  there  safely.' 

The  bugle  grew  louder.  Through  the  open  window  on 
the  far-distant  road  could  be  seen  a  cloud  of  dust.  There 
was  not  a  moment  to  lose.  Stooping,  the  boy  caught  up 
the  red  squirming  baby.  Very  tenderly  he  placed  the  lit 
tle  body  against  his  breast  and  buttoned  his  coat  over  his 
burden. 

The  sound  of  marching  feet  could  now  be  heard.  Swiftly 
he  ran  to  the  door.  As  he  reached  the  threshold  he  turned. 
His  mother,  her  eyes  shining  with  love  and  hope,  was  wav- 


SIS  LITTLE  BROTHER 

ing  a  last  good-bye.  Down  the  stairs,  out  the  back  door, 
and  across  the  fields  sped  the  child.  Over  grass  and  across 
streams  flew  the  sure  little  feet.  His  heart  tugged  fiercely 
to  go  back,  but  that  look  in  his  mother's  face  sustained 
him. 

He  knew  the  road  to  Holland:  it  was  straight  to  the 
north.  But  he  kept  to  the  fields.  He  did  n't  want  the 
baby  discovered.  Mile  after  mile,  through  hour  after 
hour  he  pushed  on,  until  twilight  came.  He  found  a  little 
spring  and  drank  thirstily.  Then  he  moistened  the  baby's 
mouth.  The  little  creature  was  very  good.  Occasionally 
she  uttered  a  feeble  cry,  but  most  of  the  time  she  slept. 
The  boy  was  intensely  weary.  His  feet  ached.  He  sat 
down  under  a  great  tree  and  leaned  against  it.  Was  it 
right  to  keep  a  baby  out  all  night?  Ought  he  to  go  to 
some  farmhouse?  If  he  did,  would  the  people  take  baby 
away?  His  mother  had  said,  'Run  straight  to  Holland.' 
But  Holland  was  twenty  miles  away.  He  opened  his  coat 
and  looked  at  the  tiny  creature.  She  slept  peacefully. 

The  night  was  very  warm.  He  decided  to  remain  where 
he  was.  It  had  grown  dark.  The  trees  and  bushes  loomed 
big.  His  heart  beat  quickly.  He  was  glad  of  the  warm, 
soft,  live  little  creature  in  his  arms.  He  had  come  on  this 
journey  for  his  mother,  but  suddenly  his  boy's  heart 
opened  to  the  tiny  clinging  thing  at  his  breast.  His  little 
hand  stroked  the  baby  tenderly.  Then  he  stooped,  and 
softly  his  lips  touched  the  red  wrinkled  face.  Presently 
his  little  body  relaxed  and  he  slept.  He  had  walked  eight 
miles.  Through  the  long  night  the  deep  sleep  of  exhaus 
tion  held  him.  He  lay  quite  motionless,  head  and  shoul 
ders  resting  against  the  tree-trunk,  and  the  new-born  babe 
enveloped  in  the  warmth  of  his  body  and  arms  slept  also. 
The  feeble  cry  of  the  child  woke  him.  The  sun  was  coming 


LITTLE  BROTHER  213 

over  the  horizon  and  the  air  was  alive  with  the  twitter  of 
birds. 

At  first  he  thought  he  was  at  home  and  had  awakened 
to  a  long  happy  summer's  day.  Then  the  fretful  little 
cries  brought  back  memory  with  a  rush.  His  new-born 
love  flooded  him.  Tenderly  he  laid  the  little  sister  down. 
Stretching  his  stiff  and  aching  body,  he  hurried  for  water. 
Very  carefully  he  put  a  few  drops  in  the  little  mouth  and 
wet  the  baby's  lips  with  his  little  brown  finger.  This 
proved  soothing  and  the  cries  ceased.  The  tug  of  the 
baby's  lips  on  his  finger  clutched  his  heart.  The  helpless 
little  thing  was  hungry,  and  he  too  was  desperately  hungry. 
What  should  he  do?  His  mother  had  spoken  of  milk.  He 
must  get  milk.  Again  he  gathered  up  his  burden  and 
buttoned  his  coat.  From  the  rising  ground  on  which  he 
stood  he  could  see  a  farmhouse  with  smoke  issuing  from  its 
chimney.  He  hurried  down  to  the  friendly  open  door.  A 
kindly  woman  gave  him  food.  She  recognized  him  as  a 
little  refugee  bound  for  Holland.  He  had  some  difficulty 
in  concealing  the  baby,  but  fortunately  she  did  not  cry. 
The  woman  saw  that  he  carried  something,  but  when  he 
asked  for  milk,  she  concluded  he  had  a  pet  kitten.  He 
accepted  this  explanation.  Eagerly  he  took  the  coveted 
milk  and  started  on. 

But  day-old  babies  do  not  know  how  to  drink.  When 
he  dropped  milk  into  the  baby's  mouth  she  choked  and 
sputtered.  He  had  to  be  content  with  moistening  her 
mouth  and  giving  her  a  milk-soaked  finger. 

Refreshed  by  sleep  and  food,  the  boy  set  off  briskly. 
Holland  did  not  now  seem  so  far  off.  If  only  his  mother 
were  safe!  Had  the  Germans  been  good  to  her?  These 
thoughts  pursued  and  tormented  him.  As  before,  he  kept 
off  the  beaten  track,  making  his  way  through  open  mead 
ows,  and  patches  of  trees.  But  as  the  day  advanced,  the 


214  LITTLE  BROTHER 

heat  grew  intense.  His  feet  ached,  his  arms  ached,  and, 
worst  of  all,  the  baby  cried  fretfully. 

At  noon  he  came  to  a  little  brook  sheltered  by  trees.  He 
sat  down  on  the  bank  and  dangled  his  swollen  feet  in  the 
cool,  fresh  stream.  But  his  tiny  sister  still  cried.  Sud 
denly  a  thought  came  to  him.  Placing  the  baby  on  his 
knees  he  undid  the  towel  that  enveloped  her.  There  had 
been  no  time  for  clothes.  Then  he  dipped  a  dirty  pocket 
handkerchief  in  the  brook  and  gently  sponged  the  hot, 
restless  little  body.  Very  tenderly  he  washed  the  little 
arms  and  legs.  That  successfully  accomplished,  he  turned 
the  tiny  creature  and  bathed  the  small  back.  Evidently 
this  was  the  proper  treatment,  for  the  baby  grew  quiet. 
His  heart  swelled  with  pride.  Reverently  he  wrapped  the 
towel  around  the  naked  little  one,  and  administering  a  few 
drops  of  milk,  again  went  on. 

All  through  that  long  hot  afternoon  he  toiled.  His  foot 
steps  grew  slower  and  slower;  he  covered  diminishing  dis 
tances.  Frequently  he  stopped  to  rest,  and  now  the  baby 
had  begun  again  to  cry  fitfully.  At  one  time  his  strength 
failed.  Then  he  placed  the  baby  under  a  tree  and  rising 
on  his  knees  uttered  a  prayer :  — 

*O  God,  she's  such  a  little  thing,  help  me  to  get  her 
there.' 

Like  a  benediction  came  the  cool  breeze  of  the  sunset 
hour,  bringing  renewed  strength. 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  following  day,  a  wagon  stopped 
before  a  Belgian  Refugee  camp  in  Holland.  Slowly  and 
stiffly  a  small  boy  slid  to  the  ground.  He  had  been  picked 
up  just  over  the  border  by  a  friendly  farmer  and  driven  to 
camp.  He  was  dirty,  dedraggled,  and  footsore.  Very 
kindly  the  ladies'  committee  received  him.  He  was  placed 
at  a  table  and  a  bowl  of  hot  soup  was  set  before  him.  He 


LITTLE  BROTHER  215 

ate  awkwardly  with  his  left  hand.  His  right  hand  held 
something  beneath  his  coat,  which  he  never  for  a  moment 
forgot.  The  women  tried  to  get  his  story,  but  he  remained 
strangely  silent.  His  eyes  wandered  over  the  room  and 
back  to  their  faces.  He  seemed  to  be  testing  them.  Not 
for  an  hour,  not  until  there  was  a  faint  stirring  in  his  coat, 
did  he  disclose  his  burden.  Then,  going  to  her  whom  he 
had  chosen  as  most  to  be  trusted,  he  opened  his  jacket. 
In  a  dirty  towel  lay  a  naked,  miserably  thin,  three-days- 
old  baby. 

Mutely  holding  out  the  forlorn  object,  the  boy  begged 
help.  Bit  by  bit  they  got  his  story.  Hurriedly  a  Belgian 
Refugee  mother  was  sent  for.  She  was  told  what  had  hap 
pened,  and  she  took  the  baby  to  her  breast.  Jealously  the 
boy  stood  guard  while  his  tiny  sister  had  her  first  real  meal. 
But  the  spark  of  life  was  very  low. 

For  two  days  the  camp  concentrated  its  attention  on 
the  tiny  creature.  The  boy  never  left  his  sister's  side. 
But  her  ordeal  had  been  too  great.  It  was  only  a  feeble 
flicker  of  life  at  best,  and  during  the  third  night  the  little 
flame  went  out.  The  boy  was  utterly  crushed.  He  had 
now  but  one  thought — to  reach  his  mother.  It  was  impos 
sible  to  keep  the  news  from  him  longer.  He  would  have 
gone  in  search.  Gently  he  was  told  of  the  skirmish  that 
had  destroyed  the  Belgian  hamlet.  There  were  no  houses 
or  people  in  the  town  that  had  once  been  his  home. 

'That  is  his  story/  ended  the  friendly  little  Dutch 
woman. 

'And  his  father?'  I  inquired. 

'Killed  at  the  front,'  was  the  reply. 

I  rose  to  go,  but  I  could  not  get  the  boy  out  of  my  mind. 
What  a  world!  What  intolerable  suffering!  Was  there 
no  way  out  ?  Then  the  ever-recurring  phrase  of  the  French 


216  LITTLE  BROTHER 

and  Belgian  soldiers  came  to  me.     When  I  had  shuddered 
at  ghastly  wounds,  at  death,  at  innumerable  white  crosses 
on  a  bloody  battlefield,  invariably,  in  dry,  cynical,  hope 
less  tones,  the  soldier  would  make  one  comment,  — 
'C'est  la  guerre;  que  voulez-vous?' 


WHAT  ROAD  GOETH  HE?  y 

BY   F.    J.    LOUR1ET 

A  SMOKY  lantern,  suspended  from  the  roof  by  a  piece  of 
spun-yarn,  described  intricate  curves  in  the  obscurity  of 
the  forecastle.  Black  chasms  gaped  on  every  side.  Oil 
skins  and  sodden  clothing  slapped  against  the  walls.  The 
air  was  impure,  saturated  with  moisture,  and  vibrant  with 
the  muffled  roar  of  the  storm  outside.  A  thin  sheet  of 
water  washed  over  the  floor  as  the  ship  rolled. 

A  sea-chest  broke  from  its  lashings,  and  carried  away  to 
leeward.  The  deck  rose,  and  the  chest  slipped  aft,  amid  a 
raffle  of  wet  boots  and  sou'westers;  it  sank,  and  the  heavy 
chest  shot  forward  across  the  slippery  floor,  to  fetch  up 
sharply  against  one  of  the  bunks.  Again  the  ship  rolled, 
and  the  chest  glided  to  leeward.  Mutterings  came  from 
the  chasms,  and  pale  faces,  distorted  with  yawns,  appeared 
above  the  bunk  boards.  The  owner  of  the  chest  awoke 
and  crept  stiffly  from  his  bunk;  the  ship  rolled,  the  water 
splashed  about  his  feet,  and  the  chest  swooped  toward 
him.  He  made  it  fast  and  climbed  into  his  bunk  again 
without  drying  his  feet.  The  faces  had  disappeared.  The 
ship  rose  and  fell,  the  lantern  swung,  the  hanging  clothes 
bulged  and  flattened  and  bulged  again;  gloomy  shadows 
wavered  and  seemed  ever  threatening  to  advance  from  the 
walls.  The  sound  of  the  storm  outside  was  dull  and  per 
sistent. 

Boom!  A  solemn  stroke  of  the  bell  on  the  forecastle- 
head  woke  one  of  the  sleepers.  He  sat  up,  expectant,  for  a 
moment,  and  then  sank  back.  As  he  did  so  the  door  slid 
open,  the  storm  bellowed  as  a  man  stepped  through,  and 


218  WHAT  ROAD  GOETH  HE? 

was  deadened  again  as  he  forced  the  door  to  behind  him. 
He  vanished  into  the  starboard  forecastle,  and  reappeared 
with  a  short  pipe  that  gurgled  as  he  smoked.  He  seated 
himself  on  a  chest,  and  the  man  who  had  awakened  looked 
down  on  him. 

'What  time  is  it?'  he  asked. 

The  smoker  looked  up.  'That  you,  Bill?  It's  gone  six 
bells/ 

The  other  grumbled.  *  I  heard  one  bell  from  the  fo'c's'le- 
head.' 

'She  rolled  bad  just  now*     Tolled  the  bell  herself.' 

'  Humph ! '  said  the  man  in  the  bunk  thoughtfully. 

'Shut  up!'  called  a  voice.     'I  want  to  sleep.' 

Bill  lowered  his  voice.  'How's  the  weather?'  he  in 
quired,  looking  down  anxiously  at  the  smoker's  glistening 
oilskins. 

'  Heavy.    The  Old  Man  hain't  left  the  deck  for  a  minute/ 

After  that  the  man  in  the  bunk  could  not  sleep  again. 
He  heard  the  other  leave  the  forecastle,  and  swear  as  the 
flying  spray  struck  his  face ;  he  heard  a  great  body  of  water 
come  over  the  bows  and  wash  aft;  he  heard  the  heavy 
breathing  about  him.  He  lay  in  his  clothing  (it  was  wet 
and  his  blankets  were  wet — 'Warm  wet,  anyhow,'  he 
thought) ,  and  shivered  at  the  sound  of  the  water  washing 
about  in  the  darkness  below  him,  and  at  the  thought  of  the 
weather  outside.  He  counted  the  minutes  grudgingly, 
and  lay  dreading  the  sound  of  the  opening  door.  Wide- 
eyed,  he  watched  the  lantern  swinging  in  the  gloom,  the 
pendulous  clothing  on  the  wall,  the  starting  shadows,  until 
some  one  beat  frantically  on  the  door,  and,  staggering  into 
the  forecastle,  turned  up  the  light  and  called  the  watch. 

'A-a-all  hands!  Eight  bells  there!  D'  ye  hear  the 
news,  you  port  watch?  Eight  bells  there! ' 

Men  stirred  and  yawned.     Tired  men  kicked  off  blankets 


WHAT  ROAD  GOETH  HE?  219 

and  sat  up,  swearing.  Cramped  men  eased  themselves 
from  their  bunks,  and  pulled  on  sodden  boots.  They 
stumbled  about  the  heaving  deck,  cursing  their  cold  oil 
skins,  cursing  the  ship,  cursing  the  sea. 

'Come,  shake  a  leg,  bullies!'  continued  the  inexorable 
voice.  *  Weather  bad  an'  goin'  to  be  worse!  Get  a  move 
on  you,  or  the  mate  '11  be  for'ard  with  a  belayin'-pin ! ' 

*  Anything  up?'  inquired  one. 

*  Heard  the  Old  Man  tell  the  mate  to  take  in  the  fore- 
lower  tops'l.' 

Thereupon  they  fell  anew  to  cursing  the  captain,  his 
seamanship,  and,  above  all,  his  want  of  knowledge  of  the 
weather. 

The  watch  went  out  into  the  tumult  of  the  night,  out 
into  a  chaos  of  smashing  seas  and  howling  wind,  out  into  a 
furious  abyss  of  darkness  and  uproar. 

They  collided  blindly  with  other  men;  they  called  out 
angrily.  Great  seas  crashed  over  the  bulwarks  and  smoth 
ered  them;  invisible  torrents  poured  off  the  forecastle- 
head  and  washed  aft,  beating  them  down,  stunning  them. 
From  somewhere  out  of  the  darkness  came  the  voice  of  the 
mate,  bawling  orders.  They  felt  for  the  clewlines,  making 
the  most  of  the  intervals  between  the  boarding  seas.  High 
above  them  they  knew  a  man  was  making  his  way  aloft  in 
the  darkness  to  ease  up  the  chain  sheets.  They  hauled 
and  swore,  arching  their  backs  against  the  seas  that  tore  at 
their  gripping  fingers  and  washed  their  feet  from  under 
them.  And  always  the  mate's  voice  sounded,  cheerful, 
threatening,  dauntless.  Then  up  into  the  black  night, 
ratline  by  ratline,  panting,  clutching,  and  climbing;  out 
upon  the  invisible  yard,  along  invisible  foot-ropes,  grasp 
ing  invisible  jack-stays;  swaying  in  the  darkness,  spat 
upon  by  the  storm,  beating  the  stiff  canvas  with  bleeding 
hands;  unheeding  the  tumult  of  the  sea,  the  pounding 


220  WHAT  ROAD  GOETH  HE? 

wind,  the  lurching  yard;  with  no  thought  save  for  the 
mate's  voice  below,  and  the  lashing  canvas  under  their 
hands.  From  the  foretop,  as  they  descended,  they  looked 
far  down  on  the  narrow  hull,  rolling,  pitching,  and  shiver 
ing,  beneath  them.  Out  from  the  darkness  pale  seas 
rushed,  roaring,  toward  the  ship;  and,  roaring,  passed  to 
leeward.  Seething  masses  of  water  rose  over  the  bows, 
smashed  down  on  the  deck,  and  surged  aft,  forward,  and 
over  the  side.  Hissing  foam  creamed  about  the  lee  chains; 
vicious  rain-squalls  drove  across  the  flooded  decks;  the 
cold  was  penetrating. 

In  the  empty  forecastle  the  lantern  swung,  the  shadows 
rose  and  crouched,  the  voice  of  the  storm  sounded  deep  and 
steady.  Ends  of  blankets  dangled  from  th e  deserted  bunks 
and  flicked  at  the  murmuring  water  on  the  floor.  The 
deck  soared  and  swooped,  soared  and  swooped,  minute 
after  minute,  hour  after  hour,  and  still  the  lantern  swung, 
and  the  shadows  moved  and  waited. 

The  door  slid  back,  the  storm  bellowed,  and  three  men 
staggered  into  the  forecastle,  bearing  another.  They  laid 
him  awkwardly  in  one  of  the  lower  bunks,  and  stood  for  a 
moment  looking  down  at  him.  The  ship  rolled,  and  the 
shadows  on  the  wall  started  as  if  they,  too,  would  gather 
around  that  gloomy  berth.  Again  the  deck  dropped,  the 
shadows  retreated,  and  the  three  men  turned  and  left  the 
forecastle. 

The  man  in  the  bunk  lay  inert,  as  they  had  left  him. 
His  body  sagged  lumpishly  to  the  roll  of  the  ship.  A  dark 
stain  appeared  and  spread  slowly  on  the  thin  pillow. 

A  little  later  another  man  entered.  He  came  to  the 
edge  of  the  bunk  and  gazed  for  a  few  minutes,  then  de 
liberately  removed  his  dripping  oilskin  coat  and  sou'wester. 
The  man  in  the  bunk  began  to  moan,  and  the  other  leaned 
over  him.  The  moans  continued,  and  the  watcher  sat 


WHAT  ROAD  GOETH  HE?  221 

down  on  a  chest  beside  the  bunk.     Soon  the  sufferer's 
eyes  opened  and  he  spoke. 
*  What  time  is  it? '  he  asked. 

'Lie  quiet,  Bill,'  the  other  cautioned.  'It's  gone  six 
bells.' 

'My  head  hurts,'  complained  Bill.  He  tried  to  raise  it, 
and  moaned  a  little. 

The  elder  man  placed  a  hand  gently  on  his  shoulder. 
'  Don't  you  worry,'  he  said.  '  You  got  hurted  a  little  when 
the  spar  carried  away.  That's  all.' 

'Spar!'  repeated  Bill,  and  pondered.  'What  watch  is 
it?' 

'Middle  watch.' 

'I  thought  I  been  on  deck,'  said  Bill.  'It  was  blowinV 
His  hands  were  groping  about.  'Who  bandaged  my 
head?' 

'The  steward.  They  carried  ye  down  into  the  cabin, 
first.  Want  a  drink,  Bill? ' 

Bill  assented,  and  the  other,  bracing  himself  against  the 

chest,  lifted  the  injured  man's  head  slightly  and  he  drank. 

'I  may  as  well  go  to  sleep,'  he  said,  and  closed  his  eyes. 

Instantly  he  reopened  them.     'Why  ain't  you  on  deck, 

Jansen?'  he  asked. 

'The  Old  Man  sent  me  in  to  sit  by  you.'  Jansen  fin 
gered  his  long  gray  beard,  and  the  bright  eyes  under  the 
shaggy  brows  blinked  uneasily.  'You  see,  it's  this  way, 
Bill.  You  was  hurt,  an'  the  Old  Man  thought  mebbe 
you'd  want  something.'  He  looked  at  the  swinging  lan 
tern  as  if  seeking  inspiration.  'Anything  I  can  do  for  ye, 
Bill?'  he  asked  at  last. 

The  other  stirred.  'I  can't  move  me  legs,'  he  com 
plained. 

'Mebbe  the  spar  hurt  your  back  a  little,'  suggested  Jan 
sen  timidly.  'You  remember,  don't  ye,  Bill? ' 


222  WHAT  ROAD  GOETH  HE? 

Again  the  injured  man  pondered.  'Me  back's  broke?' 
he  said  finally,  and  Jansen  nodded. 

'Me  back's  broke,  an'  me  head's  broke,'  Bill  went  on, 
'an'  there's  a  pain  in  me  side  like  Dago  knives.' 
'D'  ye  want  another  drink?'  asked  Jansen. 
'It's  eight  bells,  an'  my  watch  below  for  me,'  said  Bill; 
and  again  Jansen  nodded. 

Silence  fell.  The  muffled  roar  of  the  storm,  the  plung 
ing  forecastle,  the  waiting  man  on  the  chest,  the  dim  light, 
the  swinging  lantern,  the  pendulous  clothing,  and  the 
shadows,  all  seemed  accessory  to  the  great  event  about  to 
take  place. 

'The  pain  in  me  side  is  awful!'  groaned  Bill;  and  Jansen 
shivered. 

'The  Old  Man  said  he'd  come  for'ard  as  soon  as  he  could 
leave  the  poop,'  he  said,  as  if  hoping  there  might  be  com 
fort  in  the  thought. 

'I  don't  need  him,'  gasped  the  sufferer.  'I'm  goin',  I 
think.' 

Old  Jansen  folded  his  hands,  and  repeated  the  Lord's 
Prayer.  Then  he  leaned  forward.  'Is  — is  there  any 
body  ashore  you'd  want  me  to  write  to?'  he  asked. 

'No,'  answered  Bill  between  his  moans.  'Me  mother's 
dead,  an'  there's  nobody  else  that  matters.  I  never  was 
no  good  to  any  of  'em.' 

After  a  time  the  moans  ceased.  A  great  sea  boomed  on 
the  deck  outside,  and  washed  aft.  The  lantern  swung 
violently,  and  the  ship's  bell  tolled.  Jansen  looked  into 
the  bunk;  Bill's  eyes  were  fixed  on  him. 

'  I  want  to  ask  you,  Jansen,'  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  '  D'  ye 
think  there  is  any  chance  for  me? ' 

The  other  hesitated.   'I— I'm  afraid  not,'he  stammered. 
'I  don't  mean  a  chance  to  live,'  explained  Bill.     'I 
mean,  d'  ye  think  I've  got  to  go  to  hell?' 


WHAT  ROAD  GOETH  HE?  223 

Jansen's  tone  grew  positive.     'No,'  he  said,  'I  don't.' 

*  I  wisht  there  was  a  parson  here,'  muttered  the  man  in 
the  bunk.     '  There  used  to  be  a  old  chap  that  come  regular 
to  the  Sailors'  Home  —  gray  whiskers,  he  had,  an'  a  long 
coat  —  I  wisht  he  was  here.     He'd  tell  me.' 

The  man  on  the  chest  listened,  his  elbows  on  his  knees, 
his  head  on  his  hands. 

'I  shook  hands  with  him  many  a  time,'  continued  Bill. 
4 He'd  tell  me—' 

Jansen  started,  and  looked  up.  His  bright,  deep-set 
eyes  had  taken  on  a  look  intent,  glowing. 

*  Shall  I  read  to  ye  a  bit  ? '  he  asked.    *  I've  got  a  book  — 
it  might  strike  ye  —  now.' 

'  All  right,'  said  Bill  indifferently. 

The  old  man  crossed  the  forecastle,  opened  his  chest, 
and,  delving  deep  into  its  contents,  brought  forth  a  small, 
thin  book. 

It  had  seen  much  usage;  the  binding  was  broken,  the 
leaves  were  stained  and  torn.  The  old  man  handled  it  ten 
derly.  He  held  it  high  before  him  that  the  light  from  the 
swinging  lantern  might  fall  upon  the  text,  and  read  stumb- 
lingly,  pausing  when  the  light  swung  too  far  from  him,  and 
making  grotesque  blunders  over  some  of  the  long  words. 

'What  is  that  book?'  asked  Bill  after  a  time.  'It  ain't 
the  Bible?' 

'No,' said  Jansen.     'It  ain't  the  Bible.' 

'  Then  who  is  it  says  them  things  ? '  demanded  Bill.  *  He 
talks  like  he  was  Everything.' 

Jansen  lowered  the  book.  'I  don't  exactly  understand 
what  they  call  him,'  he  answered,  'they  give  him  so  many 
names.  But  I  reckon  nobody  but  God  talks  like  that, 
whatever  they  call  him.' 

'Where  did  you  get  it?  the  book,  I  mean,'  persisted  Bill. 

'  I  was  cleanin'  out  a  passenger's  cabin,  two  voyages  back, 


224  WHAT  ROAD   GOETH  HE? 

an'  I  found  it  under  the  bunk.  I've  been  readin'  it  ever 
since.  It's  all  full  o'  strange,  forrin  names,  worse  'n  the 
ones  in  the  Bible.' 

'Well,  neither  of  'em  stands  to  help  me  much,'  Com 
mented  Bill.  *  I  ain't  never  been  good.  I've  been  a  sailor- 
man.  That  book '  • —  he  broke  off  to  groan  as  the  ship  rolled 
heavily,  but  resumed  —  '  that  book  says  same  as  the  Bible, 
that  a  man's  got  to  be  pious  an'  do  good  an'  have  faith,  an' 
all  that,  else  he  don't  have  no  show  at  all.' 

*  Listen !'  said  Jansen.  He  turned  the  pages,  and  read  a 
few  lines  as  impressively  as  he  could. 

'That  sounds  easy,'  said  Bill.  'But  I  ought  to  ha' 
knowed  about  that  before.  It's  no  good  desirin'  anything 
now.  It's  too  late.  He'd  know  I  was  doin'  it  just  to  save 
my  own  skin  —  my  soul,  I  mean.' 

'Bill,'  said  Jansen.  'I'm  goin'  to  ask  you  something.' 
He  closed  the  little  book  over  one  finger,  and  leaned  to 
ward  the  bunk.  'Do  you  remember  how  you  come  to  be 
hurted  this  way?' 

'The  spare  spar  that  was  lashed  to  starboard  fetched 
loose,  an'  I  tried  to  stop  it,'  answered  Bill  readily.  '  I  see  it 
comin'.' 

'Why  did  you  try  to  stop  it? ' 

'Well,  a  big  sea  had  just  washed  the  Old  Man  down  in 
the  lee  scuppers,  an'  if  the  spar  had  struck  him  it  would  ha* 
killed  him.' 

'It's  killed  you,  Bill,'  said  Jansen.  'Did  n't  you  think 
o'that?' 

' Me ! '  exclaimed  Bill  scornfully.     '  Who's  me? ' 

'  But  why  did  you  want  to  save  his  life? '  insisted  Jansen. 

'The  ship  'ud  stand  a  likely  chance  in  a  blow  like  this 
without  a  skipper,  would  n't  she? ' 

'  Then  you  thought  — ' 

'  Thought  nothin' !     There  was  no  time  to  think.     I  see 


WHAT  ROAD  GOETH  HE?  225 

the  spar  comin'  an'  I  says,  "Blazes!  That'll  kill  the  skip 
per!"  an'  I  tried  to  stop  it.' 

*  You  ain't  sorry  you  did  it? ' 

'Sorry  nothin.     What's  done's  done.' 

'  See  here,  Bill,'  said  old  Jansen  earnestly.  '  I'll  tell  you 
what  you  did.  You  did  your  duty!  An'  you  laid  down 
your  life  for  another.  You  saved  the  captain's  life,  an' 
mebbe  the  ship,  an*  all  our  lives  through  him.  An'  you 
did  it  without  thought  o'  reward.  Don't  you  s'pose  you'll 
get  a  little  credit  for  that? ' 

'I'm  thinkin','  said  Bill.  He  lay  silent  for  a  minute. 
'Read  that  again,'  he  requested. 

Old  Jansen  did  so,  and  after  a  pause  he  added,  'Now,  if 
I  was  you  I  would  n't  worry  no  more  about  hell.  Just 
make  your  mind  as  easy  as  you  can.  That's  a  better  way 
to  go.' 

'  I've  got  that,'  said  Bill.  '  It's  all  right.  Go  on;  read  to 
me  some  more.' 

Jansen  lifted  the  book  and  resumed  his  reading.  He 
turned  the  pages  frequently,  choosing  passages  with  which 
he  was  familiar.  The  other  moaned  at  intervals.  With 
every  roll  of  the  ship,  water  plashed  faintly  underneath  the 
bunks.  The  lantern  swung  unwearied,  and  sodden  cloth 
ing  slapped  against  the  walls.  Dark  shadows  rose  and 
stooped  and  rose  again  as  if  longing  and  afraid  to  peer  into 
the  narrow  berth.  The  sound  of  the  storm  outside  was 
grave  and  insistent. 

The  reader  came  to  the  end  of  a  passage,  and  laid  the 
book  on  his  knee.  Suddenly  he  realized  that  the  moans 
had  ceased.  He  leaned  over  and  looked  at  the  man  in  the 
bunk.  He  was  dead. 

Old  Jansen  sat  motionless,  deep  in  thought.  At  length 
he  reopened  the  little  book,  and  read  once  more  the  lines 


WHAT  ROAD  GOETH  HE? 

he  had  already  repeated  at  the  dying  man's  re 
quest  : — 

Pie  is  not  lost,  thou  son  of  Pritha!  No! 
Nor  earth,  nor  heaven  is  forfeit,  even  for  him, 
Because  no  heart  that  holds  one  right  desire 
Treadeth  the  road  of  loss ! 

He  closed  the  book  and  again  meditated.  Later,  he  rose, 
replaced  the  book  in  his  chest,  drew  the  dead  man's  blanket 
over  his  face,  and  went  out  on  deck. 


THE   CLEARER  SIGHT 

BY   ERNEST    STARR 

NOAKES  leaned  over  a  stand  in  one  of  the  Maxineff  lab 
oratories  and  looked  intently  into  a  crucible,  while  he  ad 
vanced  the  lever  of  a  control-switch  regulating  the  furnace 
beneath  it.  He  held  a  steady  hand  on  the  lever,  so  that  he 
might  push  it  back  instantly  if  he  saw  in  the  crucible  too 
sudden  a  transformation.  As  he  watched,  the  dull  saffron 
powder  took  on  a  deeper  hue  about  the  edge,  the  body  of 
it  remaining  unchanged.  For  several  minutes  he  peered 
with  keen  intentness  at  the  evil,  inert  little  mass.  No 
further  change  appeared.  He  leaned  closer  over  it,  re 
gardless  of  the  thin  choking  haze  that  spread  about  his  face. 
In  his  attitude  there  was  a  rigidity  of  controlled  excitement 
out  of  keeping  witluthe  seeming  harmlessness  of  the  experi 
ment.  He  was  as  a  man  attuned  to  a  tremendous  hazard, 
anticipation  and  mental  endurance  taut,  all  his  force  fo 
cused  on  om  throbbing  desire.  He  bent  closer,  and  the 
hand  on  pr  lever  trembled  in  nervous  premonition.  The 
deepened  hue  touched  only  the  edge,  following  regularly  the 
contour  of  the  vessel;  it  made  no  advance  toward  the  centre 
of  the  substance. 

'It  shall!'  Noakes  breathed;  and  as  if  conning  an  oft- 
repeated  formula,  he  said,  'The  entire  mass  should  deepen 
in  color,  regularly  and  evenly.  Heat!  Heat!' 

His  glance  shifted  to  the  control-switch  under  his  hand. 
Its  metal  knobs,  marking  the  degrees  of  intensity  of  the 
current  it  controlled,  caught  the  light  and  blinked  like  so 
many  small,  baleful  eyes.  Particularly  one,  that  which 
would  be  capped  next  in  the  orbit  of  the  lever,  held  him 


228  THE  CLEARER  SIGHT 

fascinated;  the  winking  potentiality  of  it  thralled  him,  as 
the  troubled  crystal  devours  the  gaze  of  the  Hindu  magi. 

He  jerked  back  his  head  decisively;  he  would  increase  the 
current.  The  thought  burned  before  him  like  a  live  thing; 
and  in  the  light  of  it  he  saw  many  pictures  —  heliographs 
of  happenings  in  and  about  the  laboratories:  flame,  smoke 
dense  and  turgid,  splintered  wood,  metal  hurtling  through 
air,  bleeding  hands,  lacerated  breasts,  sightless  eyes. 

'That's  the  trouble  with  high  explosives, 'he  half  groaned. 

He  turned  away  from  the  stand  and  went  to  the  single 
window  that  lit  the  room.  Through  it  he  saw  shops,  store 
houses,  and  small  buildings  similar  to  his  own,  all  a  part  of 
the  plant  of  Maxineff.  He  thought  of  each  small  labora 
tory  as  a  potential  inferno,  each  experimenter  a  bondman 
to  ecstasy,  the  whole  frenzied,  gasping  scheme  a  further 
ance  of  the  fame  and  power  of  Henry  Maxineff,  already 
world-known,  inventor  of  the  deadliest  high  explosives. 
One  of  the  buildings  had  been  turned  into  a  temporary  hos 
pital.  He  thought  of  the  pitiful  occupant  —  his  face 
scarred,  one  socket  eyeless  —  and  shivered. 

4 It  is  n't  that  I  want  to  hedge,'  he  said.  'I  shall  take 
the  chance;  but  having  risked  everything,  I  will  go  to  her 
able  and  whole,  offering  it  all  without  an  apology.' 

His  gaze  was  drawn  back  to  the  crucible.  In  the  thin 
haze  above  it  a  face  seemed  to  shine.  Avidly  he  gave  him 
self  to  the  spell  his  tight-strung  imagination  had  conjured 
—  a  face  oval  and  delicately  tinted;  lips  joyously  curved; 
gray  eyes  not  large,  but  brimming  with  enthusiasm,  fearless 
ness,  and  truth;  a  white  brow  beneath  simply  arranged 
light  hair. 

'Let  me  bring  with  an  avowal  all  that  you  have  now, 
more !  —  for  in  your  life  there  can't  be  anything  bigger  than 
my  love.  And  it's  that  which  makes  the  deal  right.  Don't 


THE  CLEARER  SIGHT  229 

judge  me  yet !  Wait  until  I've  finished,  and  grant  me  that 
it's  worth  while.' 

He  whispered  to  the  face,  and  his  breath  made  little 
swirls  and  eddies  in  the  haze  about  it.  The  filmy  curves 
wafted  toward  him,  bringing  it  close  to  his  lips.  The  lids 
fluttered.  Then  an  acrid  odor  filled  his  throat  and  nostrils. 
The  face  vanished.  He  started  back,  distraught. 

A  rushing  recollection  of  Maxineff's  tragedies  came  to 
him,  more  vivid  even  than  the  face.  Halsey,  who  jarred 
the  nitro,  had  been  annihilated.  Ewell  was  mad  from  the 
violent  termination  of  an  experiment  similar  to  that  now  in 
development. 

'A  year  ago!'  Noakes  said,  'and  still  Ewell  lives  and 
raves ! ' 

How  alike  the  cases  were!  The  difference  lay  in  the 
crucible.  If  the  mixture  there  were  properly  prepared, 
added  heat  would  metamorphose  it  calmly  from  its  present 
harmlessness  into  something  new,  wonderful,  deadly.  It 
would  become  imbued  with  marvelous  possibility,  a  thing 
for  which  royal  military  bureaus,  imperial  navies,  would 
pay  a  great  price. 

A  twist  of  the  lever  would  do  it.  Yet  how  alike  —  And 
Ewell  was  mad,  injured  gruesomely,  living  dead. 

Again  the  blinking  switch  caught  him,  but  he  shrugged 
away  its  evil  suggest iveness.  He  sought  to  flee  the  strain 
of  the  moment,  to  make  it  seem  natural  and  like  the  smaller 
risks  of  his  daily  occupation.  He  assumed  a  tottering 
bravado,  and  as  he  put  his  hand  to  the  lever,  he  smiled 
crookedly. 

A  light,  quick  tread  sounded  on  the  walk  outside,  on  the 
double  step;  as  the  knob  turned,  a  voice  said,  'May  I  come? 
Mr.  Alchemist?' 

His  hand  left  the  lever  as  if  it  pricked  him, 

'You!' 


230  THE  CLEARER  SIGHT 

4  Am  I  a  wraith?' 

Noakes  looked  at  her  silently.  In  the  moment's  ab 
straction  her  presence  seemed  a  manifestation  of  some 
psychic  conduction  which  he  tried  lamely  to  understand  — 
here,  now,  in  a  moment  of  danger  of  which  she  unknowingly 
was  the  moving  force. 

'Then  exorcise  me  quickly,  but  don't  sprinkle  me  with 
acid;  it  would  be  fatal  to  my  clothes.' 

Noakes  warmed  to  the  aura  of  light  and  cheer  about  her. 

*  There  is  n't  an  alkali  in  the  shop ;  I  won't  endanger  you,' 
he  replied  easily. 

She  moved  into  the  room  and  paused  a  moment  near  the 
stand. 

'Mrs.  Max  says  you  are  confining  yourself  too  closely. 
I've  been  with  her  all  morning.' 

While  she  spoke  she  took  off  her  hat  and  smoothed  her 
hair. 

'  I'm  blown  to  pieces.  I  drove  Cornish  this  morning;  he 
got  by  everything  on  the  way.  He  acted  like  a  premiere 
danseuse  when  I  passed  the  cooper's  shop.' 

His  joy  at  seeing  her  was  discountenanced  by  his  fear  for 
her;  and  he  was  afraid  of  her.  Her  insinuated  trust  in  him 
threw  into  murky  relief  the  affair  which  occupied  him. 
When  she  turned  to  him  a  flushed,  joyful  face,  and  gray 
eyes  clear  and  unsullied,  it  flashed  into  his  soul,  as  formedly 
as  a  Mene  Tekel,  that  she  would  unhesitatingly  brush  out  of 
her  life-path  the  dust  of  doubt;  that  equivocation  and  will 
ingness  to  balance  motives  were  no  part  of  her.  He  knew 
that  in  her  were  no  dim  angles  of  cross-grained  purpose,  no 
shadowy  intersections  of  the  lines  of  good  and  evil. 

*  I  say  I'm  blown  to  wisps ;  could  n't  you  find  me  a  mirror, 
please?' 

'What  would  I  do  with  a  mirror  here?    But  see  —  ' 


THE  CLEARER  SIGHT  231 

He  lifted  the  window  sash,  pulled  in  one  shutter,  and 
with  a  gesture  of  presentation,  said,  'As  others  see  us! ' 

She  turned  her  back  while  she  arranged  her  hair  before 
the  makeshift  mirror.  Relieved  from  her  direct  gaze,  he 
stepped  quickly  to  the  stand,  and  looked  into  the  crucible. 
There  was  no  change.  He  had  expected  none,  but  he 
could  not  be  sure.  Maxineff  himself  could  not  be  sure  of 
this  new  mixture.  A  run  of  the  same  temperature  might 
bring  about  the  change  he  looked  for  as  readily  as  an  in 
crease.  The  suspense  was  unbearable. 

'Well,  Cagliostro!'  she  called.  ' You  alchemists  are  cap 
able  of  the  utterest  abstraction,  are  n't  you? ' 

'Why  have  you  come?'  he  said  quickly,  frowning  at 
her. 

'To  take  you  driving,'  with  an  enticing  smile. 

'Will  you  not  go?     Please,  at  once? ' 

Her  manner  lost  something  of  its  verve. 

'It  is  n't  safe,  you  know,  really,'  he  added. 

'And  won't  you  come? ' 

'I  cannot;  not  this  morning.' 

'Well,' she  said,  with  a  little  sigh,  as  she  thrust  in  her  hat 
pins,  'Mrs.  Max  will  be  disappointed.  On  her  command 
I  came  to  break  up  this  seclusion  of  yours.  None  of  us 
have  seen  you  for  —  ' 

'A  week,  seven  days!' 

'  Wrhat  are  you  doing? ' 

'Oh  —  I've  been  working  out  some  ideas.' 

'  But  you  are  so  quiet  about  it !     What  are  the  ideas? ' 

Noakes  hesitated,  and  she  laughed  merrily  as  she  went 
toward  the  door. 

'We  laity  are  hopeless,  are  n't  we?  You  are  thinking 
that  I  could  n't  possibly  understand? ' 

'No,  I  was  n't,  because  I  scarcely  understand  myself.' 

'Of  course,  some  secret  formula  Mr.  Max  has  you  on.' 


232  THE  CLEARER  SIGHT 

'  Indeed,  no,'  he  said.    *  Mr.  Max  knows  nothing  about  it 
-  that  is,'  he  continued  hurriedly,  'it's  the  sort  of  thing— 
At  any  rate,  I'll  soon  be  through.' 

She  stood  in  the  doorway,  outlined  against  the  bright 
incoming  mid-daylight,  her  face  turned  back  to  him. 

*  And  then  you  will  come  out  into  the  world  again?    Mrs. 
Max  and  Cornish  and  I  shall  be  honored.' 
4 Then  I  shall  be  free.' 
He  spoke  the  words  with  singular  feeling. 
'Truly,  though,  Mr.  Noakes,'  she  said  in  a  straightfor 
ward  manner,  'you  are  too  busy.     Mrs.  Max  says  you  are 
to  break  out,  break  out  with  the  measles  if  nothing  else  will 
interrupt  you,  and  you  are  to  have  tea  with  her  this  after 
noon.' 

Noakes  looked  doubtful.  She  went  down  the  steps  and 
turned  again. 

'Oh,  I  almost  forgot  —  here's  a  letter  for  you.' 
'Where  —  ' 

'  It  came  in  the  MaxinefiV  mail  this  morning.  Mrs.  Max 
suggested  my  bringing  it  to  you.' 

Noakes  took  the  long,  foreign-stamped  envelope.  The 
typed  superscription  was  noncommittal,  but  at  the  Berlin 
postmark  his  eyes  narrowed  and  the  knuckles  of  the  hand 
by  his  side  whitened.  He  drew  a  quick  breath  and  looked 
keenly  at  the  girl. 

'Was  Mr.  Maxineff  at  home  this  morning?'  he  asked 
quietly. 

'No;  I  believe  he  is  in  the  city.' 
'  Oh ! '  he  breathed.     '  Thank  you  very  much.' 
He  slipped  the  letter  into  his  pocket. 
'  Well,  I  can't  stay  any  longer.' 
Noakes  pressed  her  hand. 

'And,  Cagliostro,  when  the  puzzle's  solved,  come  to  see 
me.  I'll  sing  away  the  worries,  Good-bye.' 


THE  CLEARER  SIGHT  233 

*  Good-bye,  Miss  Becky.  Excuse  my  untractableness, 
won't  you?' 

With  a  pat  to  her  hat  and  a  smile  to  Noakes,  she  was 

gone. 

He  watched  her  a  moment,  then  strode  rapidly  to  the 
stand.  Looking  through  the  faint  haze,  he  saw  her  pass 
down  the  straight  path  which  led  to  the  great  gate  of  the 
Maxineff  work-yard.  When  she  was  close  to  it  he  grasped 
the  switch-lever  with  cramped  fingers.  His  face  was 
colorless.  He  moved  the  lever  forward  with  a  jerk,  and 
lifting  his  eyes,  saw  her  pass  out  of  the  gate. 

Beyond  reach  of  time  he  waited.  Evenly,  insistently,  a 
dull  brown  suffused  the  mass.  Still  he  waited,  fearfully 
wondering  at  the  stability  of  this  new  thing.  It  kept  its 
even  coloring.  He  pushed  back  the  lever,  watched  again, 
and  waited. 

He  was  afire  with  joy.    He  had  succeeded ;  he  had  created 
a  thing  new  to  the  world,  an  explosive  which  would  be  more 
powerful  than  the  deadliest  in  existence;  he  had  perfected 
the  work  of  a  week's  exquisite  danger;  he  had  won. 
'I  am  glad,  glad!'  he  said  faintly. 

As  he  straightened  up  he  found  himself  suddenly  weak. 
The  strain  had  been  galling,  and  the  madness  of  gratifica 
tion  consumed  his  strength.  He  moved  toward  the  door, 
stepping  very  gently,  for  he  knew  not  how  slight  a  vibration 
might  shatter  the  delicate  aflfinity  in  his  discovery. 

He  remembered  the  foreign  letter,  and  taking  it  from  his 
pocket,  tore  open  the  envelope. 

He  looked  through  the  open  door,  conscious  for  the  first 
time  of  the  perf ectness  of  the  day.  It  was  good  to  be  alive, 
he  thought,  free,  something  accomplished,  with  leave  to  tell 
a  girl  — 

A  tall  man  entered  the  gate  and  took  the  walk  toward  the 
laboratory.  Noakes  looked  at  him  in  a  moment  of  amaze* 


234  THE  CLEARER  SIGHT 

ment,  almost  of  stupefaction.  The  necessity  of  instant 
action  startled  him  to  movement.  As  quickly  as  he 
thought,  he  pushed  the  door  three-quarters  shut,  replaced 
the  jars  from  which  he  had  taken  his  materials,  filled  a 
second  crucible  with  a  harmless  haphazard  mixture,  and 
placed  it  over  a  dead  furnace  in  a  stand  in  the  corner  be 
hind  the  door.  He  lifted  the  window-sash.  With  all  his 
strength  he  hurled  his  priceless  crucible.  By  a  marvel  of 
speed  he  had  the  sash  lowered,  and  was  behind  the  door, 
when  the  building  was  shaken  by  an  explosion. 

'  What  is  that,  Mr.  Noakes? '  came  in  deep,  calm  tones 
from  the  door. 

4  Good  morning,  Mr.  Maxineff,'  said  Noakes,  turning 
slowly.  *  The  racket  ?  Some  half-baked  fulminate  I  put  in 
the  ditch  out  there  an  hour  ago.' 

'So  long  since?'  said  the  older  man,  advancing  toward 
the  window. 

'Yes,  sir.  I  think  the  jarring  of  the  wagon  you  see 
leaving  the  chemical  house  caused  it.' 

A  hole  several  feet  in  diameter  marked  the  spot  where  the 
crucible  fell.  The  stuff  had  delayed  not  an  instant  in 
working  its  havoc.  Noakes  was  glad  there  was  too  little 
of  it  to  cause  a  suspicious  deal  of  damage. 

Maxineff  looked  reflectively  about  the  yard,  while 
Noakes  nervously  eyed  his  chief's  expressive  profile.  His 
eyes  wandered  to  the  fine  gray  head  of  this  tall,  straight 
man.  He  could  not  fail  to  be  impressed  afresh  by  the  force 
ful  exterior,  significant  of  the  inner  attitude  which  had  won 
for  Henry  Maxineff  a  name  honored  among  nations. 

*  What  of  your  work? '  he  said. 

Noakes  was  glad  those  seeing  eyes  were  not  on  him. 

'I'm  beat,'  he  said.  'I've  gone  at  it  every  way  I  know, 
and  I  have  been  consistently  and  finally  unsuccessful.' 

In  the  ensuing  pause  Noakes  realized  that  this  was  the 


THE  CLEARER  SIGHT  235 

first  admission  of  failure  he  had  ever  made  to  his  chief. 
The  surprise  it  called  forth  was  grateful  to  him. 

*  What's  the  trouble?    But  I  think  the  trouble  with  you  is 
that  you  have  overreached  yourself,  Noakes.' 

'Oh,  no;  the  idea  is  a  fine,  tremendous  one.  Sheer  stu 
pidity  is  my  trouble,  I  think.' 

His  humility  seemed  real,  and  perhaps  the  unusualness 
of  it  brought  a  curious  expression  to  Maxineff's  face,  and 
into  his  eyes  a  contemplative  light  that  Noakes  did  not 
care  to  meet. 

' 1  met  Miss  Hallam  as  I  entered/  Maxineff  said  care 
lessly. 

The  remark  may  have  meant  much,  or  it  may  have  had 
merely  an  intentional  indication  of  the  intimacy  accorded 
Noakes  above  the  other  assistants  in  the  laboratories. 

'  Yes?  She  came  to  tell  me  that  Mrs.  Max  will  permit  me 
to  have  tea  with  her  this  afternoon.' 

'You  are  coming,  I  hope? ' 

*  Indeed,  yes.     I  confess  I  am  tired  out.     I  gave  up  the 
experiment  early  this  morning.     I  understood  the  fulmi 
nate  was  running  low,  and  spent  my  morning  blundering 
over  making  some.     I  could  n't  do  that  even,  familiar  as  I 
am  with  the  process.' 

'  Well,  leave  it  all  and  come  with  me  over  the  yard.  I  am 
inspecting  this  morning.  Be  my  secretary  for  a  while.' 

Five  o'clock  had  passed  when  they  emerged  upon  the 
New  England  town's  stolid  main  street.  They  walked 
beneath  the  venerable  flanking  trees  toward  the  Maxineff 
villa,  which  surmounted  a  wooded  continuation  of  the 
street. 

In  a  high  gray-and-white  room  they  found  Mrs.  Max 
ineff.  She  touched  a  bell  as  she  said  in  an  odd  manner  of 
inflecting,  *  But  you  are  late ! ' 

Moving  to  one  end  of  the  spindle-legged  sofa,  she  made 


236  THE  CLEARER  SIGHT 

place  at  her  side  for  Maxineff,  and  motioned  Noakes  to  a 
chair  near  them. 

*  Ah,  I  see  it:  you  will  be  a  second  Max  —  all  science,  all 
absence,  and  a  woman  waiting  at  home !  Immolation,  you 
call  it?'  she  continued,  her  hands  moving  quickly  among 
the  appurtenances  of  the  tea-table.  'That  is  what  you 
prefer,  my  young  Mr.  Noakes.' 

'I  am  under  orders,  you  know,  Mrs.  Max,'  said  Noakes, 
with  a  deferential  inclination  of  the  head  toward  Maxineff. 

A  servant  brought  in  buttered  rusks,  and  served  the  men 
with  tea. 

'Orders!  For  orders  do  yoi  permit  circles  about  your 
eyes  as  dark  as  they  themselves  are?  Then  you  are  easily 
immolate ! ' 

Over  his  cup  Maxineff  smiled  encouragement  to  his  wife. 

'You  are  practical,  my  friend.  Confess  now,  there  is  a 
reason  for  your  —  your  application?' 

Noakes 's  attitude  was  uncompromising.  He  placed  his 
cup  on  the  table  before  he  spoke. 

'The  reason  you  are  thinking  of,  Mrs.  Max,  is  not  for 
a  poor  man.' 

Mrs.  Maxineff  lifted  her  shoulders  and  displayed  her 
palms  in  a  manner  that  marked  her  nationality. 

'So!  Science  has  made  your  dark  skin  white;  love  for 
this  business  of  killing  men  has  kept  you  hid  a  week.' 

'Of  saving  men,'  Maxineff  corrected,  while  his  wife 
smiled  as  at  the  recurrence  of  a  customary  witticism. 

'And  you  gave  the  orders,  Max!  You  are  to  be  blamed 
for  this  display  of  energy.' 

'Don't  scold,  dear.     It  will  be  a  wonderful  thing! ' 

'A  new  explosive? '  she  interrupted. 

'Do  you  remember  the  day  we  motored  from  Stoneham? 
I  first  thought  of  it  then.  I  have  been  too  busy  to  work  on 
it,  so  I  turned  the  idea  over  to  Noakes/ 


THE  CLEARER  SIGHT  237 

*  And  I  have  made  application  to  a  home  for  the  feeble 
minded,  Mrs.  Max,'Noakes  said.     'Mr.  Max  will  never 
commission  me  again/ 

*  I'll  be  with  you  to-morrow,  and  we  shall  see  wherein  is 
the  difficulty.' 

' But,  Max,  another?  Now  I  see  your  scheme  of  univer 
sal  peace  quite  puffed  away!' 

'This  will  bring  it  nearer!'  Maxineff  said  enthusiasti 
cally. 

Mrs.  Maxineff  shrugged  her  shoulders  as  she  walked 
toward  the  long  windows. 

'  Stay  to  dinner,  will  you? '  she  said  to  Noakes. 

'Thanks,  but  I  could  n't  with  propriety.  I  forgot  to 
have  luncheon  to-day,  and  your  tea  has  given  me  a  keen 
anticipation  for  dinner;  my  zest  would  be  embarrasssing  to 
you,  and  past  my  control.  Besides,  I  shall  take  a  half-mile 
walk  to-night.' 

'Lucky  Becky!  Then  come  again  soon.  Max,  dear,' 
she  said,  turning  to  her  husband, '  I  cannot  hear  that  again. 
I  shall  be  on  the  porch.' 

When  she  passed  through  the  window,  Noakes  seated 
himself  to  listen  to  a  new  exposition  of  the  subject  which 
chiefly  aroused  Maxineff's  interest  and  loosed  his  speech. 
Frequently  he  bent  his  head  in  acquiescence,  and  occasion 
ally  interjected  a  pertinent  question  under  the  guidance  of 
his  secondary  mind;  but  his  thoughts  moved  in  a  circle  of 
smaller  radius. 

What  to  him  was  a  policy  of  world-peace?  He  cared  not 
a  jot  what  scheme  of  universal  pacification  men  dreamed 
over.  Maxineff's  argument  was  not  new  to  him;  when  he 
gave  it  serious  attention  he  doubted  its  practicability. 

The  older  man's  voice  seemed  far  away,  as  it  said, '  Each 
new  explosive  deals  a  blow  at  war,  —  war ! ' 

Noakes  had  heard  the  same  thing  when  his  chief  con- 


238  THE  CLEARER  SIGHT 

eluded  with  the  government  an  agreement  which  secured 
to  it  the  exclusive  use  of  his  latest  product. 

'This  new  thing  will  make  war  too  dreadful  a  course  for 
the  least  humanitarian  nation  to  pursue.  That  the  vari 
ance  of  nations  tends  toward  equilibrium  is  incontrovert 
ible.  Granted  then  — 

Noakes  was  practical.  He  placed  before  himself  a 
definite  goal.  He  exerted  every  power  to  attain  it,  and 
used  the  means  at  his  disposal.  If  he  encompassed  it,  he 
put  it  to  the  use  for  which  it  was  intended.  He  gave  no 
thought  to  the  extraneous  influence  it  exerted  on  other 
phases  upon  which  his  life  touched.  He  had  made  a  great 
discovery  —  not  a  fortunate  accident  like  that  of  the  man 
who  discovered  nitro.  With  great  danger  to  himself,  he 
had  followed  a  line  of  reasoning  to  its  proximate  end;  the 
resulting  discovery  he  would  use  to  his  individual  ad 
vantage.  He  did  not  accord  to  himself  the  godlike  privi 
lege  of  casting  discord  among  the  nations,  and  he  did  not 
care  what  peaceful  zoo  the  lion,  the  bear,  and  the  various 
species  of  eagle  found  as  common  refuge. 

'On  the  other  hand,  if  to  each  is  given  coextensive 
power  — '  The  voice  slipped  away,  as  Noakes  humorously 
wondered  why  Maxineff  had  never  been  a  delegate  to  a 
Peace  conference. 

The  great  man's  argument  was  advanced  step  by  step. 
The  light  faded.  Secure  in  the  dusk,  Noakes  no  longer 
maintained  a  semblance  of  attention.  He  weighed  the 
chances  of  the  present  and  actualized  his  long-time  dreams. 

A  servant  clicked  soft  light  from  the  wall,  and  removed 
the  tea-table. 

Noakes  rose,  uttered  a  commonplace,  and  bade  his  chief 
good-night. 

Soon  he  was  descending  the  village  street,  keeping  pace 
with  his  rapid  thoughts. 


THE  CLEARER  SIGHT  239 

From  the  exchange  he  dispatched  a  messenger  to  the 
house  a  half-mile  away. 

He  dressed  quickly,  the  while  reading  repeatedly  his 
foreign  letter.  When  dressed,  he  sat  on  the  bed,  chin  in  his 
palms,  and  looked  at  the  blank  bedroom  wall.  A  frown 
hung  between  his  brows.  Later  he  sat  before  the  shelves 
in  his  study,  absently  scanning  the  backs  of  the  books. 

'When?     When?'  he  said  aloud. 

In  the  morning  Maxineff  would  come  to  search  for  that 
which  he  had  found.  He  might  be  there  for  weeks,  from 
morning  till  night.  In  that  case  the  work  must  be  delayed 
and  misguided.  The  proportions  were  finely  calculated; 
the  method  could  not  be  bettered.  He  could  duplicate  it  in 
an  hour.  If  only  he  could  repeat  the  experiment  before  — 

*  To-night!'  he  said,  and  left  the  room  with  a  firm 
step. 

He  dined  well,  though  with  few  words  for  the  kindly  lady 
in  whose  home  he  lived. 

He  took  the  path  by  the  side  of  the  road  which  led  in  the 
opposite  direction  from  the  Maxineff  place.  He  lit  his  first 
pipe  since  morning.  How  good  life  was!  The  town,  the 
plant,  Maxineff,  were  all  behind  him.  Ahead  was  a  goal 
toward  which  he  bore  with  increasing  lightness  of  heart. 
Clearly  defined  decisions,  unregretted,  faded  into  the 
brightness  of  anticipation.  His  pack  of  problems  dropped 
from  him.  One  day  more  and  he  could  speak  —  one  even 
ing  of  companionable  friendship. 

Her  yard  was  a  gnomish  alternation  of  unsullied  light 
and  alluring  shade.  The  moon  utilized  impartially  natural 
and  artificial  features  of  landscape  as  detail  for  the  picture 
of  gray,  black,  and  silver.  Noakes  traversed  less  rapidly 
the  curved  driveway,  pausing  where  it  was  cut  by  a  paved 
way  to  the  door. 


240  THE  CLEARER  SIGHT 

Through  a  window  he  saw  her  seated  on  the  piano-bench, 
her  head  bent  forward,  her  mellow-tinted  hair  coiled  low. 
She  was  singing  softly. 

She  came  to  the  door  to  meet  him. 

*  Will  duty  call  you  back  before  you  have  been  with  me 
just  a  little  while? '  she  asked  as  they  entered  the  room. 

'No,  duty  has  lost  her  voice  at  present.' 
She  dropped  into  a  big  arm-chair.     He  turned  his  back  to 
the  light,  and  sat  facing  her. 

*  What  have  you  been  doing  this  week? ' 
'Singing  mostly.' 

'Sing  now,  please.' 

'No,  let's  talk  first.' 

'Well,  how  did  Cornish  behave  on  your  way  back?' 

'Quite  as  well  as  if  you  had  been  with  us,  Noakes.' 

He  leaned  forward  quickly. 

'Do  you  know,  that's  the  first  time  you've  called  me 
"Noakes"?' 

'It  slipped.  Mrs.  Max  says  it,  you  know;  I  am  weak 
about  taking  on  colloquialisms.' 

'And  you  are  sorry  you  have  been  so  easily  influenced? ' 
Noakes  asked  in  ponderous  aggrievement. 

'You  do  not  seem  to  be  overjoyed.' 

'I  am,'  he  said  gently. 

'Don't  be  hilarious  over  it.' 

'  I  will ;  I  wish  —  ' 

'Well,  certainly;  "Noakes"  it  shall  be.' 

'Thanks,  Miss  Beck.' 

'Have  n't  you  done  anything  but  work  these  days? ' 

'I  have  thought  more  or  less.' 

'Strange;  what  about? ' 

'You,  of  course.' 

'Steady!     Spring  has  passed.' 

'And  to-night  I  heard  a  queer  thing  about  you.' 


THE  CLEARER  SIGHT  241 

'What?'  she  asked  in  an  engaging  manner  of  invitation 
to  confidence. 

'That  you  are  to  be  married.  I  have  it  on  the  word  of 
my  landlady.' 

'I?' 

'  So  it  is  rumored  in  the  village.' 

'  I  am  glad  my  family  is  not  so  anxious  to  thrust  me  off 
as  my  friends  are/ 

'And  you  are  unwilling  to  be  thrust  off,  as  you  put  it? ' 

'Married?  No,  not  unwilling;  unprepared.  It  is  so  very 
final,  you  know.  A  woman  gives  up  everything.' 

'Not  necessarily.' 

'Oh,  yes  she  does:  freedom,  family,  associations.' 

'And  in  return?' 

'From  the  right  man  she  gets  —  a  sort  of  compensation.' 

'Not  a  high  valuation.' 

'A  true  one;  she  knows  she  cares  more  than  he  does.' 

'No,  no! '     Noakes  spoke  from  a  full  heart. 

'She  does;  and  knowing  it,  she  need  not  expect  equal 
return  —  only  part  compensation.  But  how  good  he 
ought  to  be ! ' 

'  Good? '  he  asked  doubtfully. 

'Yes,  everything  she  thinks  he  is.' 

'  No  man  loved  of  woman  is  that.' 

'  Noakes,  you  are  disillusioning,  and  incorrect,  and  more 
over  traitorous  to  your  kind.' 

'Not  a  bit  of  it;  you  overpraise  my  kind.' 

'  But  —  let's  be  definite  —  you  know  he  may  be  all  —  ' 

'And  may  not  always  have  been;  in  which  connection  he 
may  not  be  expected  to  enlighten  the  dreaming  lady,  may 
he?' 

'I  think  he  may.' 

'  But  he  may  possess  a  certain  masculine  trait,  a  kind  of 
secretiveness.' 


242  THE  CLEARER  SIGHT 

*  Secretive/  she  mused.     'Then  he  is  a  bit  of  a  coward, 
I  think/ 

'He  would  be  a  cad,'  Noakes  said  quickly,  'to  tell  her 
things  that  would  pain  her/ 

'Understanding  will  come  sooner  or  later,'  she  said 
oracularly.  '  It  is  better  to  become  accustomed  to  a  thing 
than  have  it  come  as  a  revelation.' 

'I  see,'  Noakes  said;  'like  taking  a  tonic  in  midwinter 
to  fend  off  spring  fever.  You  forget,'  he  continued  in  a 
different  tone,  looking  at  her  speculatively,  'that  under 
standing  may  never  come.' 

'Then  he  has  put  her  on  a  lower  intellectual  plane;  he 
has  withheld  from  her,  as  he  might  from  a  child.' 

'  No,  he  has  loved  her  too  well  to  hurt  her.' 

'Loved  her  so  ill  that  he  has  deceived  her  from  the 
beginning.' 

'To  my  mind  there  is  something  active  in  deception; 
this  would  be  rather  an  omission.' 

'An  omission  that  is  an  insult  to  her.' 

'Not  at  all!'     Noakes  spoke  somewhat  vehemently. 

'Don't  think  I  mean,'  she  said,  'that  there  should  be  a 
detailed  interchange  of  trivial  confidence.  That  would 
be  tiresome.  If,  however,  there  were  one  big  thing  in  his 
life  that  might  influence  her  feeling  toward  him,  he  should 
tell  it,  and  let  her  judge.' 

'Not  smooth  over  a  disagreeable  occurrence? ' 

*  Never !    It  would  be  cruel . ' 
Noakes  sat  very  still. 

'  If  I  were  the  girl,  —  '  she  began,  and  checked  the  speech 
with  a  faint  laugh.  '  But  we  will  not  be  dramatic,  nor  per 
sonal.' 

Noakes  told  himself  he  had  always  known  that  this  was 
her  thought;  she  was  too  clear-hearted  to  feel  anything  else. 
The  understanding  of  which  she  had  half-seriously  spoken 


THE  CLEARER  SIGHT  243 

must  never  come,  and  the  only  means  of  avoiding  it  was  to 
night's  silence,  the  silence  of  all  the  days  to  follow.  He 
foresaw  the  revelation  which  might  come,  and  realized  that 
any  abnegation  was  worthless  except  the  sacrifice  of  his 
love.  Alive,  aware  of  its  possible  fulfillment,  he  could  not 
condemn  himself  to  the  sacrifice.  She  had  not  asked  it  of 
him,  and  he  would  not  face  that  which  she  might  ask  if  he 
obeyed  the  weak  voice  which  counseled  a  surrender  to  her 
judgment.  To  the  last  intoxicating  drop  he  would  drink, 
in  reverent  loving-thankfulness  for  the  draught  vouchsafed 
him.  He  would  care,  not  in  fearful  accumulation  of  credit 
against  a  day  of  reckoning,  but  in  surrender  to  the  brim 
ming  abundance  of  their  store.  He  would  secure  to  her 
freedom  from  that  possible  pain  by  following  the  inevitable 
trend. 

His  regard  was  a  compelling  force  with  which  he  had 
lived  and  grown  since  he  had  known  Becky.  He  had  not 
spoken  of  it  to  her,  silenced  by  the  piteous  bane  of  in 
sufficient  income;  but  now  almost  he  was  free.  When  he 
spoke,  the  breadth  and  depth  of  the  thing  it  was  would  in 
duce  her  assent.  Of  this  he  was  so  sure  that  he  did  not 
consider  the  possibility  of  refusal.  His  failure  to  anticipate 
such  a  chance  was  by  no  means  due  to  an  under-estimation 
of  her  powers  of  will,  determination,  or  selection;  rather  to 
the  feeling  which,  with  the  beat  of  his  heart,  knocked  for 
freedom  to  go  out,  out,  about  the  world,  and  with  its 
sweeping  lines  converged  again,  to  enter  and  permeate  a 
heart  attuned  to  reception  and  response. 

He  sat  beside  her  on  the  piano-bench,  and  placed  before 
her  the  songs  he  liked  best. 

Her  voice  was  a  pure  soprano,  of  an  expressive  sweetness 
which  affected  Noakes  as  nothing  else  he  had  known.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  her  clarity  of  soul  found  expression  in 
her  exquisitely  pure  singing  tones. 


244  THE  CLEARER  SIGHT 

With  hands  tight-clasped  between  his  knees,  fearing  to 
look  at  her,  Noakes  listened  while  she  sang  him  into  a  half- 
visualized  dream,  as  obsessing  as  it  was  immanent,  which 
he  clung  to  and  enjoyed  to  the  full  in  order  that  he  might 
ignore  the  longing  then  to  speak  his  thought.  His  dream 
keyed  him  to  a  responsiveness  which  made  his  throat  throb 
in  sympathy  with  the  vibration  of  her  tones. 

Presently  he  went  away. 

Alone  in  the  silver-splotched  yard,  the  spell  yet  held  him; 
but  when  the  white  road  pointed  a  way  back  to  what  he 
had  left  behind,  a  fog  of  uncertainty  encircled  him,  dis 
sipating  the  glow  of  his  dream,  checking  his  anticipation, 
crushing  his  problem  close  to  him  in  the  narrow  circle  of  his 
vision,  so  close  that,  although  a  thing  solved  and  set  aside, 
it  loomed  ominous  and  insistent. 

He  followed  the  road  back  to  what  he  had  left  behind. 

In  the  laboratory  Noakes  bent  over  a  crucible.  The 
room  was  still.  Not  even  the  night-sounds  penetrated  the 
shut  door  and  closed  window.  The  light  from  a  single 
bulb  played  upon  the  set  lines  of  his  jaw,  and  upon  the 
still  hand  which  lay  on  the  switch-lever.  He  drew  a  deep 
breath  that  quivered  through  the  room  with  startling  dis 
tinctness.  He  bent  closer  to  the  tiny  quantity  of  powder 
in  the  bottom  of  the  vessel. 

Suddenly  he  stood  erect  and  looked  about  him.  His 
glance  slowly  circled  the  room,  and  fell  to  the  hand  on  the 
switch-lever.  Then  he  advanced  the  lever. 

It  came  as  a  burst  of  light  taken  up  and  radiated  by 
clouds  of  fume  and  gas  with  which  the  air  was  instantly 
impregnated.  Around  Noakes  was  a  white-hot  brilliance 
which  he  could  not  face,  and  could  not  escape.  His  eyes 
pained  horribly.  He  heard  a  crescendo  roaring  as  of  a 
billow  breaking  on  the  shore;  as  suddenly  as  it  had  come, 


THE  CLEARER  SIGHT  245 

the  light  went  out.  He  was  in  darkness.  He  trained  his 
gaze  into  the  void  and  succeeded  only  in  augmenting  the 
pain  back  of  his  eyes.  The  darkness  was  impenetrable. 
He  began  to  realize  what  had  happened.  With  a  low  moan 
he  crumpled  and  sank  to  the  floor. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day,  behind  a  livery 
horse,  two  men  were  covering  the  roadway  between  town 
and  the  Hallam  place.  To  one  the  way  seemed  long.  He 
leaned  back  wearily  and  pulled  a  soft  hat  down  over  his 
bandaged  eyes. 

*  Where  are  we? '  he  asked. 

*  At  the  gate,'  the  driver  replied. 

Noakes  stiffened.  The  gate  closed  behind  them,  and  the 
wheels  rumbled  on  the  driveway. 

*  Is  —  is  any  one  in  front? ' 
'Miss  Hallam  is  on  the  porch,  sir.' 
The  vehicle  came  to  a  stop. 
'Afternoon,  Miss  Beck,'  Noakes  called. 

He  tried  to  make  it  sound  pleasant  and  commonplace, 
and  knew  that  he  failed. 

Grasping  the  side  of  the  vehicle,  he  descended  clumsily. 

Becky  took  his  hand  and  pressed  it  warmly.  She  turned 
and  took  a  step  toward  the  house,  still  holding  his  hand. 
He  withdrew  it. 

'I — •  don't,  please;  I  know  the  way.' 

With  the  shuffling  tread  of  the  blind  he  ascended  the 
walk,  stopping  uncertainly  at  the  foot  of  the  steps.  He 
heard  Becky,  at  his  side,  draw  a  quick  breath,  as  if  about  to 
speak.  He  half -turned  to  her,  and  hearing  nothing  more, 
mounted  the  steps  heavily. 

4 Do  you  know,'  he  said,  as  he  paused  at  the  top,  'I've 
never  counted  these  steps  before.  I  did  n't  know  there 
were  so  many.  Let's  sit  inside,  if  you  don't  mind.' 


246  THE  CLEARER  SIGHT 

He  went  a  little  way,  and  Becky  put  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

*  It's  this  way,  Noakes,'  she  said  gently,  as  she  guided  him 
into  the  room  in  which  they  were  the  night  before. 

*  Thank  you.     It's  a  bit  hard  to  be  led,'  Noakes  said 
huskily. 

They  sat  on  a  deep  couch. 

*  Noakes,  was  it  wise  to  come?     I  am  glad  you  are  here, 
but  won't  it  hurt  you,  retard  your  recovery? '  Becky  asked 
anxiously. 

*I  had  to  come/ 

*  Mr.  Max  told  me  —  both  he  and  the  doctor  telephoned 
me  early  this  morning  —  that  in  spite  of  all  they  said  to 
you,  you  insisted  on  coming.' 

*I  am  fit,  sound  except  for  my  eyes;  that's  the  shame  of 
it,'  he  said  bitterly.  'They  could  n't  persuade  me  that  I 
should  rest  now,  rest  to  recover  from  a  shock  that  will  last  a 
lifetime/ 

'  I  thought  —  I  was  afraid  you  might  add  fresh  danger 
by  coming  out  so  soon.' 

*  I  tell  you  I  had  to  come ! '  he  said  with  level  forcefulness. 
As  for  my  eyes,  the  harm  is  done.' 

'Is  it  irremediable?' 

'I  am  blind/ 

'But  soon  —  some  day,  surely  —  ' 

'No.  The  doctor  gives  me  banalities  for  answers.  I 
suppose  he  thinks  I  would  go  to  pieces  if  he  told  me  the 
truth/ 

'Yes,  perhaps  he  thinks  you  could  not  bear  the  truth,' 
Becky  assented  very  gently. 

Her  low,  feeling  tones  brought  a  lump  to  Noakes 's  throat. 
He  felt  the  sympathy  which  quivered  in  her  voice,  and  it 
nearly  unmanned  him;  but  he  misunderstood  her  meaning. 
He  thought  that  she  felt  with  him  the  sting  of  being  de 
prived  of  full  knowledge  of  his  condition,  the  hurt  of  their 


THE  CLEARER  SIGHT  247 

doubting  his  strength.  That  Becky  meant  something  far 
different,  he  might  have  known  from  her  humble  acquies 
cence,  and  the  sudden  touch  of  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

'I've  been  trying  to  think  it  out,'  Noakes  said,  his  voice 
low  at  first,  roughening  and  increasing  in  volume  as  he 
spoke, '  but  here  I  am,  unweakened  in  mind  and  body,  and 
put  aside  —  Not  to  see,  never  to  see  for  myself  the  beauti 
ful  things  about  me;  shut  out  from  everything;  with  power 
to  do,  and  ability  to  appreciate,  yet  put  out  in  darkness; 
never  to  — O  Becky,  you,  I  can't  ever  see  you  again ! ' 

'  Don't !    You  must  n't,  please ! ' 

'  I  did  n't  intend  to  speak  so  to  you.  I  have  n't  the  right. 
You  must  pardon  me.'  He  was  silent  a  moment.  '  I  came 
to  say  something  else.' 

He  turned  his  head  about  impatiently,  calling  upon  his 
bandaged  eyes  to  perform  their  function. 

'Is  it  dark  yet?'  he  asked. 

'We  are  in  the  gloaming,'  Becky  answered  softly. 

Noakes  shut  his  lips,  taking  counsel  of  his  powers  of 
control  before  he  spoke. 

'Becky,'  he  began,  and  gave  a  tired  little  sigh.  'Let  me 
call  you  "Becky"  to-day.' 

'Yes/  she  acquiesced  quietly. 

'Becky,'  he  continued,  lingering  over  the  word,  thinking 
of  the  privilege  of  its  use  as  an  accolade  conferred  by  her, 
'you  need  not  speak  when  I  have  finished;  I'll  go  away 
then/ 

'What  is  it? '  Becky  asked.     'Tell  me/ 

Noakes  leaned  forward,  pressing  his  temples;  then  sat 
erect  and  turned  his  face  toward  her. 

'I  love  you/  he  said.  ' I  think  it  has  been  through  more 
lifetimes  than  this ;  I  know  I  shall  always  love  you.  I  could 
no  more  grow  away  from  it  than  I  could  add  a  cubit  to  my 
stature  by  taking  thought.  I  kept  silent  because  I  was 


248  THE  CLEARER  SIGHT 

poor.  Don't  think  of  this  as  a  bit  of  sordidness  creeping  in. 
My  love  would  not  ask  of  you  any  sacrifice.  I  could  not 
give  you  the  things  you  are  accustomed  to,  so  I  said  nothing. 
I  planned  and  worked  for  a  time  when  I  would  be  privileged 
to  speak.' 

He  heard  an  inarticulate  sound  at  his  side,  and  quickly 
continued :  — 

'Last  night  I  thought  the  time  was  close  at  hand.  I 
thought  in  a  few  days  I  could  come  to  you,  and  ask  you  for 
your  love.  Success  of  a  certain  kind  was  about  to  crown  an 
effort  of  a  despicable  kind.  Of  that  I  must  tell  you.  To 
night  I  am  confessing  a  wrong  I  have  done  you.  That's 
what  it  is.  O,  Becky,  the  explosion  last  night  took  away 
my  sight,  made  me  a  useless  blind  man,  but  it  opened  my 
eyes  too !  It  is  as  if  a  scroll  were  outspread  before  me,  on 
which  is  a  record  of  all  my  tendencies  and  crucial  acts. 
I  can  see  my  failures  at  the  crises  of  my  life,  and  I  can  trace 
them  back  to  causes,  can  see  wherein  a  lightly  taken  de 
termination  has  later  borne  bitter  fruit.  Last  night  I 
thought  I  had  reached  the  pinnacle  of  attainment;  in  reality 
I  had  fallen  lower  than  ever  before.  The  success  which 
was  to  be  the  beginning  of  all  good  things  was  stolen.  I 
robbed  Maxineff  of  it.  He  gave  me  an  idea  to  work  out. 
I  followed  his  instructions  to  a  point  where  I  knew  a  dif 
ferent  treatment  might  bring  about  a  fine  result.  I  saw 
great  possibilities  in  the  experiment  and  determined  to 
keep  for  myself  the  benefits  of  it.  From  that  point  I  fol 
lowed  my  own  ideas,  and  called  the  thing  mine.  I  opened 
correspondence  with  the  representatives  of  a  foreign  gov 
ernment.  They  agreed  to  buy  the  secret  in  case  of  a  suc 
cessful  test.  It  was  an  excellent  bargain  I  made  —  I  put 
a  high  price  on  the  betrayal  of  my  benefactor !  The  exper 
iment  was  successful.  I  was  forced  to  destroy  the  result, 
why  it  is  needless  to  say.  Last  night,  when  I  left  you,  I 


THE  CLEARER  SIGHT  249 

went  back  to  repeat  the  experiment,  intending  to  make 
a  small  quantity  to  be  used  in  the  test  which  would  have 
taken  place  to-morrow.  Something  went  wrong  with  the 
unstable  stuff,  —  and  you  know  the  rest.' 

In  relief  from  the  tension  of  his  confession,  his  voice 
dropped  lower  as  he  said,  *  Now  you  know  me ! ' 

He  shifted  his  position,  stretching  out  his  hands  toward 
her.  He  touched  her  face,  started,  and  drew  back. 

'And  Becky,  do  you  realize  that  it  was  after  I  left  you 
last  night  that  I  went  back?  After  what  you  told  me? 

0  Becky,  I  am  glad  I  cannot  see  you  now ! ' 
His  voice  quivered  off  to  a  whisper. 

'  It  is  poor  consolation  that  I  know  myself  for  what  you 
judge  me.  I  know  bitterly  well ;  I  see  much  now.  I  could 
not  come  to  the  weakest  agreement  with  the  self  I  want  to 
be,  until  I  had  told  you  of  the  wrong  I  have  done  you. 
And  let  me  think  my  love  is  not  distasteful  to  you.  I  know 

1  am  past  your  caring  for,  and  I'll  never  ask  it  of  you,  but 
let  me  keep  on  loving  you.     Won't  you,  Becky? ' 

He  paused  and  listened.  He  heard  Becky's  uneven 
breathing. 

'I  don't  offer  any  excuse;  there  is  none  to  offer.  I  want 
only  the  comparative  peace  of  the  assurance  that  those  I 
have  wronged  understand  now.  I  have  talked  with  Mr. 
Maxineff .  He  was  with  me  afterwards,  when  the  pain  - 
He  hushed  me  far  too  gently,  but  he  will  not  forget.  You 
will  not  forget  either,  Becky,  and  you  will  not  excuse. 
If,  though,  you  should  ask  me  why,  I  would  say  again,  I 
love  you.  It  is  the  only  reason.  I  was  thinking  of  you 
while  I  was  making  myself  unfit  for  you  to  think  of  me.' 

*  Do  you  care  so  much  ? '  Becky  asked  softly. 

'Yes.     May  I  keep  on  caring? ' 

'To  what  good?' 


250  THE  CLEARER  SIGHT 

'For  the  sake  of  the  little  good  in  me,  which  love  of  you 
will  keep  alive  and  growing.' 

'You  ask  nothing  of  me.  What  will  you  find  in  caring 
forme?' 

'There will  be  a  constant  joy  in  knowing  that  you  permit 
me  to  care.' 

Becky  was  silent. 

'If  you  won't  let  me,  I  am  afraid  it  will  make  no  differ 
ence,  because  I  cannot  help  it,  you  know.  I  don't  want  to 
help  it;  you  don't  mind  my  saying  so?' 

For  a  moment  neither  of  them  spoke.     Noakes  rose. 

'I  —  Becky,  I  thank  you  for  hearing  me  out.' 

He  went  a  step  away  from  her. 

'I'm  going.' 

She  did  not  rise. 

*I  am  glad  you  have  not  spoken  of  my  —  my  mistake; 
and  somehow  I  am  sorry.  I  know  what  you  —  ' 

'How  do  you  know  what  I  think? ' 

4 1  know;  that's  all.' 

'Don't  go,  please,'  Becky  said. 

'Had  n't  I  better?  I'm  tired,  and  the  doctor  —  A  last 
acknowledgment:  I  am  afraid  to  hear  you.' 

'But  I  don't  want  you  to  go/  she  said  softly. 

Something  in  her  tone  made  Noakes  turn  sharply. 

'Becky!' 

'Yes,  Noakes?' 

'  You  don't  — ' 

'Yes!' 

'You  love  me,  and  blind? ' 

'  You  are  brave ! ' 

Her  hands  were  in  his  when  he  sat  by  her  side. 

'I  talked  with  the  doctor  this  morning,'  she  said. 

'As  I  did/ 

'No.    He  gave  me  a  message  for  you,' 


THE  CLEARER  SIGHT  251 

*  A  message  from  the  doctor? ' 

'It  was  Mr.  Max's  notion  that  I  should  tell  you/ 

'What  is  it?  *  Noakes  asked  quickly. 

'Your  eyes  —  they  will  be  well  in  time,  if  you  are  very 
careful.' 

As  Noakes  breathed  deep  in  relief  and  gratitude,  one  of 
his  hands  engaged  two  of  Becky's,  and  he  found  a  different 
use  for  the  other. 

' Noakes/  Becky  said,  Til  take  care  of  the  eyes.' 


THE  GARDEN  OF  MEMORIES 

BY    C.    A.    MERCER 

THE  garden  looked  dreary  and  desolate  in  spite  of  the 
afternoon  sunshine.  The  lilac  and  lavender  bushes  were 
past  their  prime;  their  wealth  of  sweetness  had  been  squan 
dered  by  riotous  offshoots.  The  wind  played  among  the 
branches,  and  cast  changing  sun-flecked  shadows  on  the 
grass-grown  paths,  narrowed  by  the  encroachment  of  the 
box  borders  that  had  once  lined  the  way  with  the  stiff 
precision  of  troops  before  a  royal  progress. 

The  flowers  had  the  air  of  being  overburdejiecU-with 
the  monotony  of  their  existence.  They  could  never  have 
had  that  aspect  if  they  had  been  only  wild  flowers  and  had 
never  experienced  human  care  and  companionship.  That 
made  the  difference. 

The  gate  hung  on  rusty  hinges;  it  answered  with  a  long- 
drawn-out  creaking,  as  it  was  pushed  open  by  a  man  who 
had  been  a  stranger  to  the  place  for  nearly  twenty  years. 

Yes,  the  garden  was  certainly  smaller  than  it  had  been 
pictured  by  his  memory.  There  had  been  a  time  when  it 
had  appeared  as  a  domain  of  extensive  proportions,  and  the 
wood  beyond  of  marvelous  depth  and  density. 

He  was  conscious  of  a  sense  of  disappointment.  The 
property  would  scarcely  realize  as  high  a  price  in  the  market 
as  he  had  hoped;  and  it  was  incumbent  upon  him  to  part 
with  it,  if  he  would  be  released  from  the  narrow  circum 
stances  that  hemmed  him  in. 

He  had  arranged  to  meet  the  lawyer  there  that  afternoon. 
One  of  the  latter's  clients  had  already  made  a  bid  for  the 
estate.  The  timber,  at  all  events,  would  add  to  the  value. 


THE  GARDEN  OF  MEMORIES  253 

The  house  faced  southward  upon  the  garden.  It  was 
here  the  man  had  been  brought  up  by  an  old  great-aunt. 
He  guessed  later  that  she  had  grudged  him  any  of  the 
endearments  that  death  had  denied  her  bestowing  upon  her 
own  children.  Her  affections  had  all  been  buried  before  he 
was  born.  Besides,  he  took  after  the  wrong  branch  of  the 
family. 

She  must  have  possessed  a  strong  personality.  It  was 
difficult  to  bring  to  mind  that  it  was  no  longer  an  existent 
force.  Every  one,  from  the  parson  to  the  servants,  had 
stood  a  little  in  awe  of  her.  He  remembered  the  unmoved 
manner  in  which  she  had  received  the  news  of  the  death  of 
a  near  relative.  It  had  overwhelmed  him  with  a  sudden 
chill,  that  so  she  would  have  received  tidings  of  his  own. 
It  had  taken  all  the  sunshine  in  the  garden  to  make  him 
xwarm  again. 

In  the  mood  that  was  growing  upon  him,  it  would  not 
have  much  surprised  him  to  find  her  sitting  bolt  upright  in 
her  carved  high-back  chair,  as  she  had  sat  in  the  time  of  his 
earliest  recollections,  —  the  thin,  yellow  hands,  on  which 
the  rings  stood  out,  folded  in  her  lap.  On  one  occasion  she 
had  washed  his  small  hands  between  hers .  The  hard  lustre 
of  the  stones  acquired  a  painful  association  with  the  ordeal. 
The  blinds  would  be  partially  drawn  in  the  musk-scented 
parlor,  to  save  the  carpet  from  further  fading,  for  there 
had  been  a  tradition  of  thrift  in  the  family  from  the  time  of 
its  settlement,  —  a  tradition  that  had  not  been  maintained 
by  its  latest  representative. 

Like  the  atmosphere  of  a  dream,  the  years  grew  dim 
and  misty  between  now  and  the  time  when  summer  days 
were  longer  and  sunnier,  and  it  had  been  counted  to  him  for 
righteousness  if  he  had  amused  himself  quietly  and  not 
given  trouble. 

A  stream  that  he  had  once  dignified  with  the  name  of 


254  THE   GARDEN  OF  MEMORIES 

river  formed  a  boundary  between  the  garden  and  the  wood. 
Although  it  had  shrunk  into  shallow  insignificance,  —  with 
much  beside,  —  a  faint  halo  of  the  romance  with  which  he 
had  endued  this  early  scene  of  his  adventures  still  clung  to 
the  spot. 

As  he  came  to  the  stream,  he  saw  the  reflection  of  a  face 
in  the  water  —  not  his  own,  but  that  of  one  much  younger. 

It  was  so  he  met  the  boy.  The  child  had  been  placing 
stepping-stones  to  bridge  the  stream,  and  now  came  across, 
balancing  himself  on  the  slippery  surfaces  to  test  his  work. 
It  was  odd  that  he  had  remained  unobserved  until  this  mo 
ment,  but  that  was  due  to  the  fact  of  the  water-rushes 
on  the  brink  being  as  tall  as  he. 

The  boy's  eyes  met  those  of  the  man  with  a  frank,  un 
clouded  gaze.  He  did  not  appear  astonished.  That  is  the 
way  when  one  is  young  enough  to  be  continually  viewing 
fresh  wonders ;  one  takes  everything  for  granted.  He  saw  at 
a  glance  that  this  other  was  not  alien  to  him;  his  instinct 
remained  almost  as  true  as  those  of  the  wild  nature  around. 

For  his  own  part,  he  had  an  unmistakable  air  of  posses 
sion  about  him.  He  appeared  to  belong  to  the  place  as 
much  as  the  hollyhocks  and  honeysuckle;  and  yet,  how 
could  that  be? 

*  Probably  a  child  of  the  caretaker/  the  man  told  himself. 

He  had  authorized  the  agent  to  do  what  was  best  about 
keeping  the  house  in  order.  He  had  not  noticed  what  signs 
it  had  to  show  of  habitation.  Now  he  saw  from  the  dis 
tance  that  it  had  not  the  unoccupied  appearance  he  had 
expected  of  it;  nor  the  windows,  the  dark  vacant  stare  of 
those  that  no  life  behind  illumines. 

'Do  you  live  here? '  he  asked  of  the  boy. 

'  Yes.'  The  boy  turned  proudly  toward  the  modest  gray 
pile  in  the  manner  of  introducing  it,  forgetting  himself  in 
his  subject.  *  It's  a  very  old  house.  There's  a  picture  over 


THE  GARDEN  OF  MEMORIES  255 

the  bureau  in  the  parlor  of  the  man  who  built  it,  and  planted 
the  trees  in  the  wood.  Hannah  says  — 

'Hannah!' 

It  was  a  foolish  repetition  of  the  name.  Of  course  there 
were  other  Hannahs  in  the  world.  The  old  servant  of  that 
name,  who  had  told  the  man  stories  in  his  boyhood,  had 
been  dead  more  years  than  the  child  could  number. 

'  Yes,  —  don't  you  know  Hannah?  She'll  come  and  call 
me  In  presently,  and  then  you'll  see  her.  Hannah  says 
they  —  the  trees  —  have  grown  up  with  the  family '  (he 
assumed  a  queer  importance,  evidently  in  unconscious 
mimicry  of  the  one  who  had  repeated  the  tradition  to  him), 
'and  that  with  them  the  house  will  stand  or  fall.  Do  you 
think  the  roots  really  reach  so  far?' 

There  was  an  underlying  uneasiness  in  the  tone,  which  it 
was  impossible  altogether  to  disguise. 

As  the  other  expressed  his  inability  to  volunteer  an 
opinion  on  this  point,  the  boy  went  on,  seeing  that  his  con 
fidences  were  treated  with  due  respect : 

'I  dug  up  one  myself  once  —  I  wished  I  had  n't  after 
wards —  to  make  myself  a  Christmas  tree  like  I'd  read 
about.  I  just  had  to  hang  some  old  things  I  had  on  it. 
It  was  only  a  tiny  fir,  small  enough  to  go  in  a  flower-pot; 
but  that  night  the  house  shook,  and  the  windows  rattled  as 
if  all  the  trees  in  the  forest  were  trying  to  get  in.  I  heard 
them  tapping  their  boughs  ever  so  angrily  against  the  pane. 
As  soon  as  it  was  light,  I  went  out  and  planted  the  Christ 
mas  tree  again.  I  had  n't  meant  to  keep  it  out  of  the 
ground  long:  they  might  have  known  that.' 

'Have  you  no  playfellows  here? ' 

The  boy  gave  a  comprehensive  glance  around.  'There 
are  the  trees ;  they  are  good  fellows.  I  would  n't  part  with 
one  of  them.  It's  fine  to  hear  them  all  clap  their  hands 


256  THE   GARDEN  OF  MEMORIES 

when  we  are  all  jolly  together.  There  are  nests  in  them, 
too,  and  squirrels.  We  see  a  lot  of  one  another.' 

This  statement  was  not  difficult  to  believe:  the  Holland 
overalls  bore  evident  traces  of  fellowship  with  mossy 
trunks. 

The  boy  did  most  of  the  talking.  He  had  more  to  tell  of 
the  founder  of  the  family  whose  portrait  hung  in  the  parlor, 
and  of  how,  when  he  —  the  child  —  grew  up,  he  rather 
thought  of  writing  books,  as  that  same  ancestor  had  done, 
and  making  the  name  great  and  famous  again.  He  had  not 
decided  what  kind  of  books  he  should  write  yet.  Was  it 
very  hard  to  find  words  to  rhyme,  if  one  tried  poetry?  He 
was  at  no  pains  to  hide  such  fancies  and  ambitions,  of  which 
his  kind  are  generally  too  sensitive  or  too  ashamed  to  speak 
to  their  elders,  and  which  are  as  a  rule  forgotten  as  soon  as 
outgrown. 

*  Shall  we  go  in  the  wood  now? '  said  the  boy.  '  It's  easy 
enough  to  cross  over  the  stepping-stones.' 

'Yes,  let  us  go.'  The  man  was  beginning  to  see  every 
thing  through  the  boy's  eyes.  The  garden  was  again  much 
as  he  had  remembered  it,  inclosed  in  a  world  of  beautiful 
mystery.  Nothing  was  really  altered.  What  alteration  he 
had  imagined  had  been  merely  a  transitory  one  in  himself. 
The  child  had  put  a  warm,  eager  hand  into  his;  together 
they  went  into  the  wood,  as  happy  as  a  pair  of  truant 
school  boys ;  they  might  have  been  friends  of  long  stand 
ing. 

'  So  this  is  your  enchanted  forest? '  said  the  man. 

'Not  really  enchanted,'  replied  the  boy -seriously.  'I 
once  read  of  one,  but  of  course  it  was  only  in  a  fairy  tale. 
That  one  vanished  as  soon  as  one  spoke  the  right  word.  It 
would  be  a  very  wrong  word  that  could  make  this  vanish.' 
He  had  a  way  of  speaking  of  the  wood  as  if  it  were  some 
sacred  grove. 


THE  GARDEN  OF  MEMORIES  257 

His  companion  suddenly  felt  guilty,  not  quite  knowing 

why. 

'Of  course  some  one  might  cut  them  down/  The  boy 
lowered  his  voice;  it  seemed  shameful  to  mention  the  perpe 
tration  of  such  a  deed  aloud.  '  It  would  be  terrible  to  hear 
them  groan  when  the  axe  struck  them.  The  young  ones 
might  n't  mind  so  much;  but  it  would  be  bad  for  the  grand 
father  trees  who  Ve  beenhere  from  the  beginning.  Hannah 
says  one  would  still  hear  them  wailing  on  stormy  nights.' 

'Even  if  they  had  been  felled  and  carted  away? ' 

'Yes,  even  then;  though,  to  be  sure,  there  would  be  no 
one  to  hear  the  wailing  if  it's  true  that  the  house  must  fall, 
too,  at  the  same  time.  But  we  need  n't  trouble  about  that; 
none  of  it  is  likely  to  happen.  You  see,  if  it  did,  where 
should  I  be?' 

He  laughed  merrily.  This  last  argument  appeared  to 
him  to  be  quite  conclusive.  Such  an  important  considera 
tion  placed  the  awful  contingency  quite  out  of  the  question, 
and  transformed  it  into  nothing  more  than  a  joke. 

The  child's  laughter  died  away  as  they  both  stood  still  to 
listen.  Each  thought  he  had  heard  his  own  name  called. 

'It's  Hannah,'  said  the  boy;  and  off  he  raced  toward  the 
house,  barely  saving  himself  from  running  into  the  arms  of 
another  person  who  had  turned  in  at  the  gate. 

'Who  was  the  boy  who  ran  round  by  the  espaliers  a 
minute  ago?  One  would  scarcely  have  judged  him  to  be  a 
child  of  the  caretaker.' 

The  man's  heart  sank  with  a  dull  thud:  something  had 
told  him  the  answer  before  it  came. 

'  Child ! '  The  lawyer  looked  puzzled.  *  I  did  not  see  one. 
No  children  have  any  business  in  this  garden;  neither  is 
there  any  caretaker  here.  The  house  has  been  shut  up 


258  THE  GARDEN  OF  MEMORIES 

altogether  since  the  old  servant  you  called  Hannah  died, 
eleven  years  ago.' 

They  had  reached  the  veranda.  The  westering  sun  had 
faded  off  the  windows.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  the  house 
was  empty.  The  shutters  were  up  within,  and  the  panes 
dark  and  weather-stained.  Birds  had  built  their  nests  un 
disturbed  about  the  chimney  stacks.  The  hearthstones  had 
long  been  cold. 

'My  client  is  willing  to  purchase  the  property  on  the 
terms  originally  proposed,'  the  lawyer  was  saying.  'He 
contemplates  investing  in  it  as  a  building  site.  Of  course 
the  timber  would  have  to  be  felled  — ' 

A  breeze  passed  through  the  treetops  like  a  shudder. 
The  younger  man  interposed : — 

*I  am  sorry  you  should  have  had  the  trouble  of  coming 
here,  but  I  have  decided  to  keep  the  old  place  after  all  — 
stick  and  stone.  It  is  not  right  it  should  go  out  of  the  fam 
ily.  I  must  pull  my  affairs  together  as  well  as  I  can  with 
out  that.' 

The  little  phantom  of  his  dead  boyhood  was  to  suffer  no 
eviction. 


THE  CLEAREST  VOICE 

BY   MARGARET    SHERWOOD 

THE  little  business  frown  which  John  Wareham  usually 
wore  only  at  his  office,  and  put  off  as  he  put  on  his  hat  in 
starting  for  home,  lingered  that  evening,  persisting  through 
the  long  street-car  ride,  the  walk  past  rows  of  suburban 
houses,  and  even  to  the  brook  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  below 
his  home.  Here  it  vanished,  for  the  brook  marked  the  spot 
where  the  world  stopped,  and  Alice  began.  He  watched 
with  a  meditative  happy  smile  the  rough  stone  fence 
which  bordered  this  bit  of  meadow  land,  with  the  trail 
ing  woodbine  and  clematis  that  made  it  a  thing  of  beauty; 
and,  as  he  climbed  the  hill,  the  deepening  color  in  the  sun 
set  clouds,  and  the  notes  of  a  wood  thrush  from  the  forest 
edge  not  far  away,  became  part  of  a  deep  sense  of  harmony, 
breaking  a  mood  of  anxiety  and  fear. 

Then  came  the  comforting  glimpse  of  the  red  brick 
house  through  the  encompassing  green,  with  its  white 
daintiness  of  porch,  fan- window,  and  window-facings.  It 
all  looked  like  her;  in  its  serene  and  simple  distinction  it 
seemed  to  embody  her;  her  creative  touch  was  everywhere. 
The  bay  window,  about  which  they  had  disagreed  when 
the  house  was  planned,  had,  surprisingly,  turned  out  to  the 
liking  of  both.  As  he  fumbled  at  the  latch  of  the  gate,  and 
pinched  his  finger  as  he  always  did,  a  vexed  sense  of  tri 
umph  came  to  him,  for  it  surely  would  have  worked  better 
if  he  had  insisted  on  having  his  own  way!  Everywhere 
were  traces  of  little  worries  and  little  triumphs,  the  latter 
predominating.  It  was  the  very  soul  of  home,  from  the 
threshold  to  the  branches  of  the  tall  elm  which  touched  the 


260  THE  CLEAREST  VOICE 

roof  protectingly;  it  was  wholly  desirable, —  and  it  might 
have  to  go. 

As  he  followed  the  brick  walk,  in  bitterness  he  closed  his 
eyes  that  he  might  not  see,  and  so  ran  into  a  porch  pillar, 
the  one  on  which  Alice's  red  roses  were  blossoming;  the 
queer  little  groan  that  he  gave  in  some  strange  way  took 
on  the  sound  of  'Railroads!'  and  again  'Railroads!'  as  he 
beat  his  head  against  the  pillar  once  or  twice  purposely; 
and  his  voice  had  a  note  of  contempt.  He  had  not  felt  that 
way  about  railroads  when  he  had  invested  his  savings, 
partly  in  the  stock  of  a  new  railroad  in  the  West,  partly  in 
the  stock  of  an  old  railroad  in  the  East  that  was  doing  wild 
things  in  the  way  of  improvements.  Then  there  had  been 
nothing  too  good  for  him  to  say  about  the  earning  power  of 
railroads,  the  wise  management  of  railroads,  the  net  profits 
of  railroads.  Now,  both  railroads  were  in  trouble;  divi 
dends  were  cut,  and  the  stock  which  he  had  hoped  to  sell 
at  a  profit  had  dropped  almost  to  zero;  the  mortgage  loan 
on  his  house  was  due  in  a  month;  and  he,  a  man  earning 
only  a  moderate  salary  in  a  real-estate  office,  had  nothing 
in  the  world  wherewith  to  meet  the  emergency.  Even  the 
savings-bank  deposit  had  gone  into  railroad  stock,  in  order 
that  the  mortgage  might  be  paid  off  more  quickly. 

But  his  face  lighted  up  with  a  smile  both  sad  and  bright 
which  made  quite  a  different  face  of  it  as  he  crossed  the 
threshold,  that  threshold  on  which  Alice  had  stopped  to 
kiss  him  the  day  he  had  married  her  and  brought  her  home. 
There  was  something  here  that  shut  out  all  the  trouble 
in  the  universe:  about  the  doorway  his  wife's  laughter 
seemed  to  be  always  floating, —  that  laughter,  merry, 
touched  with  tenderness,  made  up  of  mirth  and  sorrow,  as 
all  wise  laughter  is.  Just  then  came  little  Jack  to  meet  him, 
speeding  madly  down  the  baluster;  and  John,  as  he  picked 
up  his  boy,  kissed  him,  and  reproved  him  for  coming  down- 


THE  CLEAREST  VOICE  261 

stairs  that  way,  had  nothing  to  answer,  when  his  son 
averred  that  it  was  lots  better  than  a  railroad,  save  'That 
might  well  be.' 

'There's  ice-cream  for  dinner,'  the  boy  exploded;  and  the 
father,  roughly  smoothing  Jack's  tousled  hair,  started  as  he 
caught  a  sound  of  chatter  from  the  living-room,  and  stood 
still  in  dismay.  That  to-day  of  all  days  should  be  the  time 
of  the  family  gathering  which  brought  two  uncles,  two 
aunts,  and  three  cousins  to  the  house !  How  completely  he 
had  forgotten!  He  hung  up  his  hat  and  grasped  little 
Jack's  hand;  he  would  tell  them  nothing  about  his  troubles, 
nothing;  he  would  be  the  ideal  host,  concealing  his  personal 
vexations  under  a  cordial  smile. 

But  hardly  had  he  opened  the  door,  with  his  office  bag 
still  held  absentmindedly  in  his  hand,  when  they  were  upon 
him.  The  cordial  smile  did  not  deceive  them  for  a  minute. 
Aunt  Janet,  who  was  sitting  by  the  fireplace,  looked  the 
most  troubled  of  all,  though  she  said  nothing.  It  was 
'Why,  John,  what's  the  matter?'  from  Aunt  Mary,  and 
'Well,  John,  how  goes  it? '  from  Uncle  Philip,  who  looked  as 
if  he  knew  that  it  went  very  badly  indeed ;  and '  What  makes 
you  look  so  worried?  With  a  home  like  this,  no  man  ought 
to  look  worried,'  from  his  Cousin  Austin,  who  had  recently 
become  engaged  and  was  thinking  about  homes.  He 
nodded  approvingly  at  the  room,  which  was  simply  fur 
nished,  soft  in  coloring,  with  English  chintzes,  a  few  pic 
tures  of  trees  and  of  water,  —  all  out-of-door  things,  —  and 
a  fireplace  that  showed  signs  of  constant  use. 

John's  face  brightened  as  he  caught  this  look  of  admira 
tion;  not  all  the  confusion  of  greeting  and  inquiries  in  re 
gard  to  health,  not  all  the  business  worries  in  the  world 
could  check  the  sense  of  peace  that  always  came  to  him  in 
entering  this  room,  which,  more  perfectly  than  any  other 
spot,  expressed  the  personality  of  Alice.  He-m 


262  THE  CLEAREST  VOICE 

make  his  way  through  the  little  crowd  of  sympathetic 
wrinkled  faces,  and  wondering  smooth  faces.  There  were, 
it  was  discovered,  comfortable  chairs  enough  for  all,  and 
John  found  himself,  as  host,  the  centre  of  a  little  group  bent 
on  probing  his  affairs,  in  friendly  fashion,  to  the  bottom. 

It  was  his  sister  Emily  who  finally  started  the  flood  of 
questioning  that  led  to  the  betrayal  of  the  secret  he  had 
meant  to  keep  for  the  present.  She  came  bustling^  in 
through  the  door  leading  to  the  dining-room,  looking  anx 
ious  as  soon  as  she  glanced  at  her  brother;  and  from  the 
brass  bowl  of  yellow  roses  held  unsteadily  in  her  hand,  a 
few  drops  spattered  to  the  floor. 

'Are  you  ill,  John/  she  asked,  'or  have  you  lost  —  ' 

Among  all  the  many  voices  of  inquiry,  comment,  ques 
tion  whereby  she  was  interrupted,  the  voice  of  Alice  was 
the  clearest,  making  the  others,  no  matter  how  near  the 
speakers  stood,  seem  to  come  from  far  away.  Little  Jack 
came  and  climbed  upon  his  father's  knee,  a  curious  repro 
duction  of  the  family  look  of  worry  appearing  on  his  chubby 
face.  John  the  elder  leaned  his  head  back  in  the  chintz- 
covered  chair,  shutting  his  eyes  for  a  minute  with  a  sense  of 
warmth  and  satisfaction,  and  the  nearness  of  the  cuddling 
body  of  his  son. 

'Everything's  the  matter,'  he  said  wearily,  'everything'; 
and  he  had  a  momentary  twinge  of  conscience,  realizing 
that  he  was  not  being  the  ideal  host. 

They  all  watched  him  anxiously,  sympathetically,  in 
silence;  and  Aunt  Mary,  near  the  window,  went  on  drawing 
her  needle  in  and  out  with  exquisite  precision,  her  gray 
head  bent  over  a  centrepiece  which  she  intended  to  pre 
sent  to  the  house. 

'Oh  no,  I'm  not  ill,'  said  John  Wareham,  suddenly  sitting 
upright;  'but  the  Long  Gorge  Railroad  has  gone  into  a  re- 


THE  CLEAREST  VOICE  263 

ceiver's  hands,  and  three  days  ago  the  New  York  and 
Nineveh  cut  its  dividend.  I'm  done  for.' 

Emily  gave  a  little  gasp,  and  said  nothing.  'You  will 
pull  through  all  right,'  asserted  Uncle  Philip,  stirring  up  the 
fire  in  order  to  hide  his  face.  And  Cousin  Austin  slapped 
John's  shoulder,  saying  facetiously,  'Take  courage,  Jere 
miah.  The  worst  is  yet  to  come.' 

John  laughed  in  spite  of  himself,  and  struck  his  fist  upon 
the  knee  not  occupied  by  Jack. 

*  Every  dollar  I  had  in  the  world  I  had  drawn  out  and  put 
into  those  two  cursed  things.  Now  I've  nothing,  no  capi 
tal,  no  credit.  The  place  has  got  to  go.' 

'  No,  no ! '  cried  the  women-folk. 

'The  place  has  got  to  go,'  repeated  John  Wareham,  his 
face  in  little  Jack's  hair.  'And  I  feel  as  if  I  could  rob  a 
bank  or  a  jewelry  store  to  prevent  that.' 

Jack  burst  into  a  delighted  giggle,  through  which  John 
heard,  'You  would  n't  do  any  such  thing,  and  you  mustn't 
talk  that  way  before  Jack.'  It  was  Alice  who  spoke,  with  a 
little  catch  in  her  voice  that  sometimes  came,  half  way  be 
tween  a  laugh  and  a  sob ;  and  it  was  echoed  by  the  two 
aunts. 

'  Railroads ! '  growled  John,  with  supreme  contempt.  '  It 
would  have  been  a  great  deal  better  if  railroads  had  never 
been  invented.  Jack,  we  shall  have  to  get  a  prairie 
schooner,  and  trek  to  the  West.' 

Jack's  eyes  shone  like  stars,  but  he  got  no  chance  to  say 
anything,  for,  with  that  outburst,  the  springs  of  speech 
were  loosened.  There  was  the  clamor,  the  chorus  clamor, 
of  relatives,  indignant,  inquisitive,  sympathetic  relatives, 
all  eager  to  help,  and  all  uneasily  conscious  that  their  own 
small  measure  of  prosperity  would  hardly  stand  the  strain. 
He  shook  his  head  sadly  in  answer  to  the  inquiry  as  to 
whether  he  could  not  borrow:  he  had  no  security.  Aunt 


264  THE  CLEAREST  VOICE 

Mary  did  not  fail  to  remind  him  that  she  had  warned  him 
at  the  time;  Aunt  Janet,  in  a  thin  but  affectionate  voice, 
admitted  that  she  had  suffered  in  the  same  way  heavily. 
And  then  the  clock  ticked  through  a  brief  silence. 

'Why  don't  you  read  your  letters?'  asked  Emily  sud 
denly.  She  stood,  absent-mindedly  arranging  the  flowers 
with  one  finger,  busy  already  with  plans  for  the  future. 

There  was  a  small  pile  of  letters  on  the  centre  table, 
quite  within  John's  reach;  he  began  tearing  open  the  en 
velopes  in  mechanical  fashion,  throwing  them  untidily 
upon  the  floor.  As  each  one  fell,  Jack  slid  down  and  picked 
it  up,  climbing  back  to  his  father's  knee.  One  was  a  wed 
ding  announcement;  one  was  a  plumber's  bill;  at  the  third, 
John  paused,  read,  looked  up  bewildered,  and  read  again. 

'Why,  Emily!'  he  exploded,  boyishly.  'This  can't  be. 
Read  that,  will  you,  and  tell  me  if  I  have  lost  my  mind.' 

Emily  put  down  the  roses,  and  read  the  letter  slowly, 
wonderingly,  smiling  even  as  her  brother  had  smiled. 

'  Not  Uncle  John !    And  we  were  always  so  afraid  of  him ! ' 

*  Twenty  thousand  dollars!'  murmured  John. 

Open-mouthed  silence  waited  upon  them,  until  Cousin 
Austin  broke  the  spell  with, — 

'I  say,  would  you  mind  if  I  looked  over  your  shoulder?' 

And  John  flung  him  the  letter  with  a  little  whoop  of  joy. 

'  Is  this  plain  living,  or  is  this  a  fairy  story?'  he  demanded 
quizzically.  '  I  never  thought  of  myself  as  a  dark-eyed  hero 
with  a  fortune  dropping  into  my  hands  just  in  the  nick  of 
time!  A  title  ought  to  go  with  it.' 

The  vibrant  energy  of  the  man  was  back  again ;  -the  dry 
humor  which,  in  sunny  seasons,  quivered  about  his  mouth, 
was  once  more  there;  the  mocking  incredulity  of  his  words 
belied  the  growing  look  of  peace  and  security  in  his  face. 
The  years  seemed  slipping  from  him,  bringing  him  a  mel 
low  boyhood. 


THE  CLEAREST  VOICE  265 

*  Twenty  thousand  dollars  is  n't  exactly  a  fortune,  John.' 
'It  will  buy  the  place  twice   over,'  exulted  the  man, 

'and  we  shan't  have  to  start  for  the  West  in  a  prairie 
schooner  right  away!' 

*  Shan't  we,  papa?'  asked  little  Jack,  in  hungry  disap 
pointment. 

But  the  child's  shrill  voice  had  little  chance  where  every 
body  was  speaking  at  once.  Aunt  Mary's  'Well,  I  hope 
you  hang  on  to  this,  and  not  be  foolish  again,'  and  Cousin 
Austin's  *  You  deserve  it,  John,'  and  Uncle  Howard's  *  Well, 
I  am  glad.  Shake ! '  and  several  other  congratulatory  re 
marks  all  came  at  once. 

'The  poor  old  fellow;  the  poor  old  fellow,'  said  John  to 
himself  softly,  rubbing  his  hands.  'I  suppose  he  died  out 
in  Oklahoma  all  alone.  How  he  happened  to  will  this  to 
me,  I  give  up;  he  did  n't  like  me  very  well.' 

The  very  atmosphere  of  the  room  had  changed;  once 
more  a  feeling  of  quiet  pleasure  pervaded  it.  The  full  sense 
of  home,  peace,  security  came  back,  with  a  suggestion  of  a 
kettle  singing  on  the  hearth,  though  there  was  no  kettle 
nearer  than  the  kitchen. 

*  But  there's  Frank  —    '    It  must  have  been  Alice  who 
suggested  this,  and  a  something  disturbing,  questioning, 
crept  into  the  air. 

'Frank!'  said  John  Wareham  suddenly.  'Why,  I'd  for 
gotten  all  about  Frank !  We  have  n't  heard  of  him  for 
more  than  fifteen  years  or  so,  have  we? ' 

'More  than  that,'  answered  Emily.  'He  was  in  Mexico, 
the  last  we  knew.' 

'He  may  be  living,'  suggested  John.  'Mexico  is  always 
in  such  a  state  —  I  suppose  the  mails  can't  be  trusted.' 

'We  ought  to  find  out,'  said  Alice. 

*  Uncle  John  had  cast  him  off,'  suggested  Emily  tenta 
tively,  anxiously. 


266  THE  CLEAREST  VOICE 

'But  he  was  Uncle  John's  own  son/  said  Alice,  earnestly, 
compellingly;  'and  wasn't  Uncle  John  in  the  wrong?' 

'  Uncle  John  was  a  queer  customer,'  said  John  hastily. 
'He  was  cranky,  no  doubt  about  it,  but  he  was  n't  crazy; 
and  if  this  lawyer's  statement  is  correct,  I've  got  a  good 
legal  right  to  the  twenty  thousand,  haven't  I? ' 

'  Of  course  you  have ! '  said  Aunt  Mary. 

'But  the  moral  right?'  whispered  Alice. 

'What  was  the  quarrel  about,  anyway?'  asked  Austin. 
'Frank's  marriage,  was  n't  it?  I  never  heard  much  about 
it.' 

'That  was  part  of  it,'  said  Aunt  Janet.  'Frank,  you 
know,  fell  in  love  with  a  little  country  girl  whom  his  father 
did  not  want  him  to  marry,  but  he  insisted  on  having  his 
way,  and  married  her.' 

'Good  for  him,'  nodded  Austin  approvingly. 

Little  Jack,  glancing  from  one  to  another  with  wide  blue 
eyes,  was  silently  weaving  his  philosophy  of  life,  and  his 
interpretation  of  humanity. 

'Religion  was  mixed  up  in  it  in  some  way,'  contributed 
John.  '  Uncle  grew  to  be  something  of  a  fanatic,  and  he 
wanted  them  both  to  believe  what  he  believed,  and  they 
would  n't,  or  did  n't,  or  could  n't.  It  was  incompatibility 
of  temper  all  round,  I  dare  say.' 

'Frank  was  a  good  son,'  reminded  Alice.  'He  was  pa 
tient  with  his  father,  and  he  all  but  gave  up  his  life  for 
Uncle  John,  nursing  him  through  diphtheria.' 

More  and  more  the  sweet,  persistent  voice  brought 
trouble  and  question  into  the  atmosphere  from  which 
trouble  and  question  had  so  suddenly  cleared.  The  new 
security  began  to  seem  unstable;  the  new-found  joy  a 
stolen  thing.  Even  in  the  pauses,  the  personality  of  the 
woman  spoke  from  curtain  and  cushion  and  fireplace  of 
this  room  of  her  devising.  She  dominated  the  whole, 


THE  CLEAREST  VOICE  267 

seeming  the  only  presence  there;  brother  and  sister  and 
guests  shrank  in  the  radiance  of  her. 

'Do  you  really  think  I  ought  to  hunt  Frank  up?*  asked 
the  man. 

Emily  shook  her  head,  but  doubtfully. 

'You  probably  couldn't  find  him,  after  all  these  years.' 

'I  could  try,'  admitted  John. 

*  Nonsense!'  cried  Aunt  Mary,  over  her  embroidery. 
'You  stay  right  where  you  are,  and  pay  off  your  mortgage. 
A  man  who  has  worked  as  hard  as  you  have,  and  has  had 
as  much  trouble,  ought  to  take  a  bit  of  good  luck  when  it 
comes/ 

*  Think  how  much  good  you  could  do  with  it,'  murmured 
Aunt  Janet. 

'As  the  pickpocket  said  when  he  put  the  stolen  dime  in 
the  collection  plate,'  said  Austin;  but  fortunately  Aunt 
Janet  did  not  understand. 

'Uncle  had  a  right  to  do  what  he  pleased  with  his  own,' 
said  John  defiantly.  'If  he  chose  to  cast  off  his  son,  for 
reasons  which  he  considered  sufficient,  he  had  the  right.' 

'But  you  cannot  cast  off  your  son,'  persisted  Alice. 
'John,  we  have  a  boy  of  our  own.  You  know  that  the 
obligation  is  one  of  all  eternity;  you  cannot  get  rid  of 
fatherhood.' 

'O  papa,  papa,  you  hurt  me,'  squealed  little  John,  sud 
denly  interrupted  in  his  philosophy- weaving. 

'Confound  it  all!'  cried  John  with  sudden  irritation. 
'  Is  n't  this  just  like  life !  To  hold  out  the  rope,  just  to 
grab  it  away  again  with  a  grin  —  I  won't,  I  say.  What  is 
mine  is  mine.' 

'But  it  is  n't  yours.' 

'Did  Frank  have  any  children?'  he  asked. 

*  Several,  I  believe,'  admitted  Emily  reluctantly. 


268  THE  CLEAREST  VOICE 

*And  he  never  got  on?' 

'He  never  got  on.' 

'And  the  twenty  thousand  might  save  their  pesky  little 
Mexican  souls.' 

The  child's  laughter  rippled  out  across  the  shocked 
silence  of  the  elders. 

*  Maybe  Uncle  John  left  them  something,'  suggested 
Emily.  '  For  a  man  who  tried  such  big  things  this  does  n't 
seem  much  money.' 

Her  brother  shook  his  head. 

'  "The  entire  sum  of  which  he  stands  possessed,"  '  he 
read  from  the  lawyer's  letter. 

'You  might  make  a  few  inquiries  through  the  post.  I 
rather  imagine  the  Mexican  mail  service  is  n't  very  trust 
worthy,'  suggested  Aunt  Mary,  hopefully. 

He  looked  at  her,  but  in  abstracted  fashion,  as  if  it  were 
not  to  Aunt  Mary  that  he  was  listening. 

'  I'll  write  to  this  Oklahoma  lawyer,  and  then  I  must  go 
to  Mexico.' 

'Is  n't  it  a  little  quixotic?' 

'  It's  most  likely  all  kinds  of  foolishness,  like  everything 
else  I  do,'  groaned  the  man.  'But  it's  what  I'd  want  done 
for  my  little  chap  if  I  were  dead  and  he  alive,  and  I  had 
quarreled  with  him.  I  suppose  I  could  keep  this  money 
and  save  my  skin,  but  — •' 

'You  couldn't  keep  it  without  finding  out,'  murmured 
Alice,  'because  you  are  you,  and  the  real  you  is  incapable 
of  doing  a  mean  thing.' 

'You  must  do  as  you  think  best,'  said  Emily  at  last. 
'Maybe,  if  you  find  Frank,  he  won't  want  it  all,  but  will 
divide,  knowing  that  his  father  willed  it  to  you.' 

'That  may  be  as  it  may  be,'  said  the  man,  leaning  back 
in  his  chair  with  the  face  of  one  listening.  'But  I  go  to 


THE  CLEAREST  VOICE  269 

Mexico.  It's  a  queer  game  we  play  here,  and  I'll  be  dashed 
if  I  can  understand  it,  but  I'm  going  to  play  it  as  fairly  as  I 
know  how.' 

So  the  voice  of  Alice  won,  of  Alice,  who  had  been  dead 
for  five  long  years. 


THE   MARBLE   CHILD 

BY   E.    NESBIT 

ALL  over  the  pavement  of  the  church  spread  the  exag 
gerated  cross-hatching  of  the  old  pews'  oak,  a  Smithfield 
market  of  intersecting  lines  such  as  children  made  with 
cards  in  the  old  days  when  kings  and  knaves  had  fat  legs 
bulging  above  their  serviceable  feet,  and  queens  had  skirts 
to  their  gowns  and  were  not  cut  across  their  royal  middles 
by  mirrors  reflecting  only  the  bedizened  torso  of  them  and 
the  charge  —  heart,  trefoil,  or  the  like  —  in  the  right-hand 
top  corner  of  the  oblong  that  framed  them. 

The  pew  had  qualities :  tall  fat  hassocks,  red  cushions,  a 
comparative  seclusion,  and,  in  the  case  of  the  affluent,  red 
curtains  drawn  at  sermon-time. 

The  child  wearied  by  the  spectacle  of  a  plump  divine,  in 
black  gown  and  Geneva  bands,  thumping  the  pulpit- 
cushions  in  the  madness  of  incomprehensible  oratory,  sur 
rendered  his  ears  to  the  noise  of  intonations  which,  in  his 
own  treble,  would  have  earned  the  reprimand,  *  Naughty 
temper.'  His  eyes,  however,  were,  through  some  over 
sight  of  the  gods  of  his  universe,  still  his  own.  They  found 
their  own  pasture :  not,  to  be  sure,  the  argent  and  sable  of 
gown  and  bands,  still  less  the  gules  of  flushed  denunciatory 
gills. 

There  is  fair  pasture  in  an  old  church  which,  when  Nor 
man  work  was  broken  down,  men  loved  and  built  again  as 
from  the  heart,  with  pillars  and  arches,  which,  to  their  rude 
time,  symbolized  all  that  the  heart  desires  to  materialize, 
in  symbolic  stone.  The  fretted  tombs  where  the  effigies  of 
warrior  and  priest  lay  life-like  in  dead  marble,  the  fretted 


THE  MARBLE  CHILD  271 

canopies  that  brooded  above  their  rest.  Tall  pillars  like 
the  trunks  of  the  pine  woods  that  smelt  so  sweet,  the  marvel 
of  the  timbered  roof  —  turned  upside  down  it  would  be 
like  a  ship.  And  what  could  be  easier  than  to  turn  it  up 
side  down?  Imagination  shrank  bashfully  from  the  pulpit 
already  tightly  tenanted,  but  the  triforium  was  plainly  and 
beautifully  empty;  there  one  could  walk,  squeezing  happily 
through  the  deep  thin  arches  and  treading  carefully  by  the 
unguarded  narrow  ledge.  Only  if  one  played  too  long  in 
the  roof  aunts  nudged,  and  urgent  whispers  insisted  that 
one  must  not  look  about  like  that  in  church.  When  this 
moment  came  it  came  always  as  a  crisis  foreseen,  half 
dreaded,  half  longed-for.  After  that  the  child  kept  his 
eyes  lowered,  and  looked  only  at  the  faded  red  hassocks 
from  which  the  straw  bulged,  and  in  brief,  guarded,  inti 
mate  moments,  at  the  other  child. 

The  other  child  was  kneeling,  always,  whether  the  con 
gregation  knelt  or  stood  or  sat.  Its  hands  were  clasped. 
Its  face  was  raised,  but  its  back  bowed  under  a  weight  — 
the  weight  of  the  font,  for  the  other  child  was  of  marble 
and  knelt  always  in  the  church,  Sundays  and  week-days. 
There  had  been  once  three  marble  figures  holding  up  the 
shallow  basin,  but  two  had  crumbled  or  been  broken  away, 
and  now  it  seemed  that  the  whole  weight  of  the  superim 
posed  marble  rested  on  those  slender  shoulders. 

The  child  who  was  not  marble  was  sorry  for  the  other. 
He  must  be  very  tired. 

The  child  who  was  not  marble,  —  his  name  was  Ernest, 
—  that  child  of  weary  eyes  and  bored  brain,  pitied  the 
marble  boy  while  he  envied  him. 

*I  suppose  he  does  n't  really  feel,  if  he's  stone,'  he  said. 
*  That's  what  they  mean  by  the  stony-hearted  tyrant.  But 
if  he  does  feel  —  How  jolly  it  would  be  if  he  could  come 
out  and  sit  in  my  pew,  or  if  I  could  creep  under  the  font 


272  THE  MARBLE  CHILD 

beside  him.  If  he  would  move  a  little  there  would  be  just 
room  for  me.' 

The  first  time  that  Ernest  ever  saw  the  marble  child 
move  was  on  the  hottest  Sunday  in  the  year.  The  walk 
across  the  fields  had  been  a  breathless  penance,  the  ground 
burned  the  soles  of  Ernest's  feet  as  red-hot  ploughshares 
the  feet  of  the  saints.  The  corn  was  cut,  and  stood  in  stiff 
yellow  stocks,  and  the  shadows  were  very  black.  The 
sky  was  light,  except  in  the  west  beyond  the  pine  trees, 
where  blue-black  clouds  were  piled. 

'Like  witches'  feather-beds/  said  Aunt  Harriet,  shaking 
out  the  folds  of  her  lace  shawl. 

'Not  before  the  child,  dear,'  whispered  Aunt  Emmeline. 

Ernest  heard  her,  of  course.  It  was  always  like  that:  as 
soon  as  any  one  spoke  about  anything  interesting,  Aunt 
Emmeline  intervened.  Ernest  walked  along  very  melan 
choly  in  his  starched  frill.  The  dust  had  whitened  his 
strapped  shoes,  and  there  was  a  wrinkle  in  one  of  his  white 
socks. 

'Pull  it  up,  child,  pull  it  up,'  said  Aunt  Jessie;  and 
shielded  from  the  world  by  the  vast  silk- veiled  crinolines 
of  three  full-sized  aunts,  he  pulled  it  up. 

On  the  way  to  church,  and  indeed,  in  all  walks  abroad, 
you  held  the  hand  of  an  aunt;  the  circumferent  crinolines 
made  the  holding  an  arm's-length  business,  very  tiring. 
Ernest  was  always  glad  when,  in  the  porch,  the  hand  was 
dropped.  It  was  just  as  the  porch  was  reached  that  the 
first  lonely  roll  of  thunder  broke  over  the  hills. 

'  I  knew  it,'  said  Aunt  Jessie,  in  triumph; '  but  you  would 
wear  your  blue  silk.' 

There  was  no  more  thunder  till  after  the  second  lesson, 
which  was  hardly  ever  as  interesting  as  the  first,  Ernest 
thought.  The  marble  child  looked  more  tired  than  usual, 
and  Ernest  lost  himself  in  a  dream-game  where  both  of 


THE  MARBLE  CHILD  273 

them  got  out  from  prison  and  played  hide-and-seek  among 
the  tombstones.  Then  the  thunder  cracked  deafeningly 
right  over  the  church.  Ernest  forgot  to  stand  up,  and 
even  the  clergyman  waited  till  it  died  away. 

It  was  a  most  exciting  service,  well  worth  coming  to 
church  for,  and  afterwards  people  crowded  in  the  wide 
porch  and  wondered  whether  it  would  clear,  and  wished 
they  had  brought  their  umbrellas.  Some  went  back  and 
sat  in  their  pews  till  the  servants  should  have  had  time  to 
go  home  and  return  with  umbrellas  and  cloaks.  The  more 
impetuous  made  clumsy  rushes  between  the  showers,  bon 
nets  bent,  skirts  held  well  up.  Many  a  Sunday  dress  was 
ruined  that  day,  many  a  bonnet  fell  from  best  to  second- 
best. 

And  it  was  when  Aunt  Jessie  whispered  to  him  to  sit  still 
and  be  a  good  boy  and  learn  a  hymn,  that  he  looked  to  the 
marble  child  with,  'Is  n't  it  a  shame?'  in  his  heart  and  his 
eyes,  and  the  marble  child  looked  back,  '  Never  mind,  it 
will  soon  be  over,'  and  held  out  its  marble  hands.  Ernest 
saw  them  come  toward  him,  reaching  well  beyond  the  rim 
of  the  basin  under  which  they  had  always,  till  now,  stayed. 

'Oh!'  said  Ernest,  quite  out  loud;  and,  dropping  the 
hymn-book,  held  out  his  hands,  or  began  to  hold  them  out. 
For  before  he  had  done  more  than  sketch  the  gesture,  he 
remembered  that  marble  does  not  move  and  that  one  must 
not  be  silly.  All  the  same,  marble  had  moved.  Also 
Ernest  had  *  spoken  out  loud'  in  church.  Unspeakable 
disgrace ! 

He  was  taken  home  in  conscious  ignominy,  treading  in 
all  the  puddles  to  distract  his  mind  from  his  condition. 

He  was  put  to  bed  early,  as  a  punishment,  instead  of 
sitting  up  and  learning  his  catechism  under  the  charge  of 
one  of  the  maids  while  the  aunts  went  to  evening  church. 
This,  while  it  was  terrible  to  Ernest,  was  in  the  nature  of 


274  THE  MARBLE  CHILD 

a  reprieve  to  the  housemaid,  who  found  means  to  modify 
her  own  consequent  loneliness.  Far-away  whispers  and 
laughs  from  the  back  or  kitchen  windows  assured  Ernest 
that  the  front  or  polite  side  of  the  house  was  unguarded. 
He  got  up,  simulated  the  appearance  of  the  completely 
dressed,  and  went  down  the  carpeted  stairs,  through  the 
rosewood-furnished  drawing-room,  rose-scented  and  still 
as  a  deathbed,  and  so  out  through  the  French  windows  to 
the  lawn,  where  already  the  beginnings  of  dew  lay  softly. 

His  going  out  had  no  definite  aim.  It  was  simply  an  act 
of  rebellion  such  as,  secure  from  observation,  the  timid 
may  achieve;  a  demonstration  akin  to  putting  the  tongue 
out  behind  people's  backs. 

Having  got  himself  out  on  the  lawn,  he  made  haste 
to  hide  in  the  shrubbery,  disheartened  by  a  baffling  con 
sciousness  of  the  futility  of  safe  revenges.  What  is  the 
tongue  put  out  behind  the  back  of  the  enemy  without 
the  applause  of  some  admirer? 

The  red  rays  of  the  setting  sun  made  splendor  in  the 
dripping  shrubbery. 

*I  wish  I  hadn't,'  said  Ernest. 

But  it  seemed  silly  to  go  back  now,  just  to  go  out  and  to 
go  back.  So  he  went  farther  into  the  shrubbery  and  got 
out  at  the  other  side  where  the  shrubbery  slopes  down  into 
the  wood,  and  it  was  nearly  dark  there  —  so  nearly  that 
the  child  felt  more  alone  than  ever. 

And  then  quite  suddenly  he  was  not  alone.  Hands 
parted  the  hazels  and  a  face  he  knew  looked  out  from  be 
tween  them. 

He  knew  the  face,  and  yet  the  child  he  saw  was  not  any 
of  the  children  he  knew. 

'Well,'  said  the  child  with  the  face  he  knew;  'I've  been 
watching  you.  What  did  you  come  out  for?' 

'I  was  put  to  bed.' 


THE  MARBLE  CHILD  275 

'Do  you  not  like  it? ' 

'Not  when  it's  for  punishment/ 

'If  you'll  go  back  now,'  said  the  strange  child,  'I'll  come 
and  play  with  you  after  you're  asleep.' 

'  You  dare  n't.    Suppose  the  aunts  catch  you? ' 

'They  won't,'  said  the  child,  shaking  its  head  and  laugh 
ing.  'I'll  race  you  to  the  house!' 

Ernest  ran.  He  won  the  race.  For  the  other  child  was 
not  there  at  all  when  he  reached  the  house. 

'How  odd!'  he  said.  But  he  was  tired  and  there  was 
thunder  again  and  it  was  beginning  to  rain,  large  spots  as 
big  as  pennies  on  the  step  of  the  French  window.  So  he 
went  back  to  bed,  too  sleepy  to  worry  about  the  question 
of  where  he  had  seen  the  child  before,  and  only  a  little 
disappointed  because  his  revenge  had  been  so  brief  and 
inadequate. 

Then  he  fell  asleep  and  dreamed  that  the  marble  child 
had  crept  out  from  under  the  font,  and  that  he  and  it  were 
playing  hide-and-seek  among  the  pews  in  the  gallery  at 
church.  It  was  a  delightful  dream  and  lasted  all  night, 
and  when  he  woke  he  knew  that  the  child  he  had  seen  in 
the  wood  in  yesterday's  last  light  was  the  marble  child 
from  the  church. 

This  did  not  surprise  him  as  much  as  it  would  surprise 
you:  the  world  where  children  live  is  so  full  of  amazing 
and  incredible-looking  things  that  turn  out  to  be  quite 
real.  And  if  Lot's  wife  could  be  turned  into  a  pillar  of  salt, 
why  should  not  a  marble  child  turn  into  a  real  one?  It 
was  all  quite  plain  to  Ernest,  but  he  did  not  tell  any  one: 
because  he  had  a  feeling  that  it  might  not  be  easy  to  make 
it  plain  to  them. 

'That  child  doesn't  look  quite  the  thing,'  said  Aunt 
Emmeline  at  breakfast.  '  A  dose  of  Gregory's,  I  think,  at 
eleven.' 


276  THE  MARBLE  CHILD 

Ernest's  morning  was  blighted.  Did  you  ever  take 
Gregory's  powder?  It  is  worse  than  quinine,  worse  than 
senna,  worse  than  anything  except  castor  oil. 

But  Ernest  had  to  take  it  —  in  raspberry  jam. 

'And  don't  make  such  faces,'  said  Aunt  Emmeline, 
rinsing  the  spoon  at  the  pantry  sink.  *  You  know  it's  all  for 
your  own  good.' 

As  if  the  thought  that  it  is  for  one's  own  good  ever  kept 
any  one  from  making  faces ! 

The  aunts  were  kind  in  their  grown-up  crinolined  way. 
But  Ernest  wanted  some  one  to  play  with.  Every  night  in 
his  dreams  he  played  with  the  marble  child.  And  at  church 
on  Sunday  the  marble  child  still  held  out  its  hands,  far 
ther  than  before. 

'Come  along  then,'  Ernest  said  to  it,  in  that  voice  with 
which  heart  speaks  to  heart;  'come  and  sit  with  me  behind 
the  red  curtains.  Come ! ' 

The  marble  child  did  not  look  at  him.  Its  head  seemed 
to  be  bent  farther  forward  than  ever  before. 

When  it  came  to  the  second  hymn  Ernest  had  an  in 
spiration.  All  the  rest  of  the  churchful,  sleepy  and  suit 
able,  were  singing,  — 

'The  roseate  hues  of  early  dawn, 

The  brightness  of  the  day, 
The  crimson  of  the  sunset  sky, 
How  fast  they  fade  away.' 

Ernest  turned  his  head  towards  the  marble  child  and 
softly  mouthed,  —  you  could  hardly  call  it  singing,  - 

'The  rosy  tews  of  early  dawn, 
The  brightness  of  the  day; 
Come  out,  come  out,  come  out,  come  out, 
Come  out  with  me  and  play.' 


THE  MARBLE  CHILD  277 

And  he  pictured  the  rapture  of  that  moment  when  the 
marble  child  should  respond  to  this  appeal,  creep  out  from 
under  the  font,  and  come  and  sit  beside  him  on  the  red 
cushions  beyond  the  red  curtains.  The  aunts  would  not 
see,  of  course.  They  never  saw  the  things  that  mattered. 
No  one  would  see  except  Ernest.  He  looked  hard  at  the 
marble  child. 

'You  must  come  out/  he  said;  and  again,  'You  must 
come,  you  must.' 

And  the  marble  child  did  come.  It  crept  out  and  came 
to  sit  by  him,  holding  his  hand.  It  was  a  cold  hand  cer 
tainly,  but  it  did  not  feel  like  marble. 

And  the  next  thing  he  knew,  an  aunt  was  shaking  him 
and  whispering  with  fierceness  tempered  by  reverence  for 
the  sacred  edifice,  — 

'  Wake  up,  Ernest.    How  can  you  be  so  naughty? ' 

And  the  marble  child  was  back  in  its  place  under  the 
font. 

When  Ernest  looks  back  on  that  summer  it  seems  to  have 
thundered  every  time  he  went  to  church.  But  of  course 
this  cannot  really  have  been  the  case. 

But  it  was  certainly  a  very  lowering  purple-skied  day 
which  saw  him  stealthily  start  on  the  adventure  of  his  little 
life.  He  was  weary  of  aunts — they  were  kind  yet  just; 
they  told  him  so  and  he  believed  them.  But  their  justice 
was  exactly  like  other  people's  nagging,  and  their  kindness 
he  did  not  want  at  all.  He  wanted  some  one  to  play  with. 

'May  we  walk  up  to  the  churchyard?'  was  a  request  at 
first  received  graciously  as  showing  a  serious  spirit.  But 
its  reiteration  was  considered  morbid,  and  his  walks  took 
the  more  dusty  direction  of  the  County  Asylum. 

His  longing  for  the  only  child  he  knew,  the  marble  child, 
exacerbated  by  denial,  drove  him  to  rebellion.  He  would 
run  away.  He  would  live  with  the  marble  child  in  the  big 


278  THE  MARBLE  CHILD 

church  porch ;  they  would  eat  berries  from  the  wood  near 
by,  just  as  children  did  in  books,  and  hide  there  when 
people  came  to  church. 

So  he  watched  his  opportunity  and  went  quietly  out 
through  the  French  window,  skirted  the  side  of  the  house 
where  all  the  windows  were  blank  because  of  the  old  win 
dow-tax,  took  the  narrow  strip  of  lawn  at  a  breathless  run, 
and  found  safe  cover  among  the  rhododendrons. 

The  church-door  was  locked,  of  course,  but  he  knew 
where  there  was  a  broken  pane  in  the  vestry  window,  and 
his  eye  had  marked  the  lop-sided  tombstone  underneath  it. 
By  climbing  upon  that  and  getting  a  knee  in  the  carved 
water-spout  —  He  did  it,  got  his  hand  through,  turned 
the  catch  of  the  window,  and  fell  through  upon  the  dusty 
table  of  the  vestry. 

The  door  was  ajar  and  he  passed  into  the  empty  church. 
It  seemed  very  large  and  gray  now  that  he  had  it  to  him 
self.  His  feet  made  a  loud  echoing  noise  that  was  dis 
concerting.  He  had  meant  to  call  out,  'Here  I  am!'  But 
in  the  face  of  these  echoes  he  could  not. 

He  found  the  marble  child,  its  head  bent  more  than 
ever,  its  hands  reaching  out  quite  beyond  the  edge  of  the 
font;  and  when  he  was  quite  close  he  whispered,  — 

'Here  I  am.  —  Come  and  play!' 

But  his  voice  trembled  a  little.  The  marble  child  was  so 
plainly  marble.  And  yet  it  had  not  always  been  marble. 
He  was  not  sure.  Yet  — 

'I  am  sure,'  he  said.  'You  did  talk  to  me  in  the  shrub 
bery,  didn't  you?' 

But  the  marble  child  did  not  move  or  speak. 

'You  did  come  and  hold  my  hand  last  Sunday,'  he  said, 
a  little  louder. 

And  only  the  empty  echoes  answered  him. 

'Come  out,'  he  said  then,  almost  afraid   now  of  the 


THE  MARBLE  CHILD  279 

church's  insistent  silence.  Tve  come  to  live  with  you 
altogether.  Come  out  of  your  marble,  do  come  out ! ' 

He  reached  up  to  stroke  the  marble  cheek.  A  sound 
thrilled  him,  a  loud  everyday  sound.  The  big  key  turning 
in  the  lock  of  the  south  door.  The  aunts ! 

'Now  they'll  take  me  back,'  said  Ernest;  'you  might 
have  come.' 

But  it  was  not  the  aunts.  It  was  the  old  pew-opener, 
come  to  scrub  the  chancel.  She  came  slowly  in  with  pail 
and  brush;  the  pail  slopped  a  little  water  on  to  the  floor 
close  to  Ernest  as  she  passed  him,  not  seeing. 

Then  the  marble  child  moved,  turned  toward  Ernest  with 
speaking  lips  and  eyes  that  saw. 

'You  can  stay  with  me  forever  if  you  like,'  it  said, 
'  but  you'll  have  to  see  things  happen.  I  have  seen  things 
happen.' 

'What  sort  of  things?'  Ernest  asked. 

'Terrible  things.' 

'What  things  shall  I  have  to  see?' 

'Her? — the  marble  child  moved  a  free  arm  to  point  to 
the  old  woman  on  the  chancel  steps,  —  'and  your  aunt 
who  will  be  here  presently,  looking  for  you.  Do  you  hear 
the  thunder?  Presently  the  lightning  will  strike  the 
church.  It  won't  hurt  us,  but  it  will  fall  on  them.' 

Ernest  remembered  in  a  flash  how  kind  Aunt  Emmeline 
had  been  when  he  was  ill,  how  Aunt  Jessie  had  given  him 
his  chessmen,  and  Aunt  Harriet  had  taught  him  how  to 
make  paper  rosettes  for  picture-frames. 

'I  must  go  and  tell  them,'  he  said. 

'If  you  go,  you'll  never  see  me  again,'  said  the  marble 
child,  and  put  its  arms  round  his  neck. 

'Can't  I  come  back  to  you  when  I've  told  them?'  Er 
nest  asked,  returning  the  embrace. 

*  There  will  be  no  coming  back,'  said  the  marble  child. 


280  THE  MARBLE  CHILD 

'But  I  want  you.  I  love  you  best  of  everybody  in  the 
world,'  Ernest  said. 

'I  know.' 

'I'll  stay  with  you,'  said  Ernest. 

The  marble  child  said  nothing. 

'But  if  I  don't  tell  them  I  shall  be  the  same  as  a  mur 
derer,'  Ernest  whispered.  'Oh!  let  me  go,  and  come  back 
to  you.' 

'I  shall  not  be  here.' 

'But  I  must  go.  I  must,'  said  Ernest,  torn  between 
love  and  duty. 

'Yes.' 

'And  I  shan't  have  you  any  more?'  the  living  child 
urged. 

'You'll  have  me  in  your  heart,'  said  the  marble  child  — 
'that's  where  I  want  to  be.  That's  my  real  home.' 

They  kissed  each  other  again. 

'It  was  certainly  a  direct  Providence,'  Aunt  Emmeline 
used  to  say  in  later  years  to  really  sympathetic  friends, 
'that  I  thought  of  going  up  to  the  church  when  I  did. 
Otherwise  nothing  could  have  saved  dear  Ernest.  He  was 
terrified,  quite  crazy  with  fright,  poor  child,  and  he  rushed 
out  at  me  from  behind  our  pew  shouting,  "Come  away, 
come  away,  auntie,  come  away!"  and  dragged  me  out. 
Mrs.  Meadows  providentially  followed,  to  see  what  it  was 
all  about,  and  the  next  thing  was  the  catastrophe.' 

'The  church  was  struck  by  a  thunder-bolt  was  it  not?' 
the  sympathetic  friend  asks. 

'  It  was  indeed  —  a  deafening  crash,  my  dear  —  and 
then  the  church  slowly  crumbled  before  our  eyes.  The 
south  wall  broke  like  a  slice  of  cake  when  you  break  it 
across — and  the  noise  and  the  dust!  Mrs.  Meadows 
never  had  her  hearing  again,  poor  thing,  and  her  mind  was 


THE  MARBLE  CHILD  281 

a  little  affected  too.  I  became  unconscious,  and  Ernest  — 
well,  it  was  altogether  too  much  for  the  child.  He  lay 
between  life  and  death  for  weeks.  Shock  to  the  system, 
the  physician  said.  He  had  been  rather  run  down  be 
fore.  We  had  to  get  a  little  cousin  to  come  and  live  with 
us  afterwards.  The  physicians  said  that  he  required  young 
society.' 

'It  must  indeed  have  been  a  shock,'  says  the  sympathet 
ic  friend,  who  knows  there  is  more  to  come. 

'His  intellect  was  quite  changed,  my  dear,'  Aunt 
Emmeline  resumes;  'on  regaining  consciousness  he  de 
manded  the  marble  child!  Cried  and  raved,  my  dear, 
always  about  the  marble  child.  It  appeared  he  had  had 
fancies  about  one  of  the  little  angels  that  supported  the 
old  font,  not  the  present  font,  my  dear.  We  presented 
that  as  a  token  of  gratitude  to  Providence  for  our  escape. 
Of  course  we  checked  his  fancifulness  as  well  as  we  could, 
but  it  lasted  quite  a  long  time.' 

'What  became  of  the  little  marble  angel?'  the  friend  in 
quires  as  in  friendship  bound. 

'Crushed  to  powder,  dear,  in  the  awful  wreck  of  the 
church.  Not  a  trace  of  it  could  be  found.  And  poor  Mrs. 
Meadows!  So  dreadful  those  delusions.' 

'What  form  did  her  delusions  take?'  the  friend,  anxious 
to  be  done  with  the  old  story,  hastily  asks. 

'Well,  she  always  declared  that  two  children  ran  out  to 
warn  me  and  that  one  of  them  was  very  unusual  looking. 
"It  was  n't  no  flesh  and  blood,  ma'am,"  she  used  to  say  in 
her  ungrammatical  way;  "  it  was  a  little  angel  a-taking  care 
of  Master  Ernest.  It  'ad  'old  of  'is  'and.  And  I  say  it  was 
'is  garden  angel,  and  its  face  was  as  bright  as  a  lily  in  the 
sun."  ' 

The  friend  glances  at  the  India  cabinet,  and  Aunt  Em 
meline  rises  and  unlocks  it. 


282  THE  MARBLE  CHILD 

*  Ernest  must  have  been  behaving  in  a  very  naughty 
and  destructive  way  in  the  church  —  but  the  physician  said 
he  was  not  quite  himself  probably,  for  when  they  got  him 
home  and  undressed  him  they  found  this  in  his  hand/ 

Then  the  sympathizing  friend  polishes  her  glasses  and 
looks,  not  for  the  first  time,  at  the  relic  from  the  drawer  of 
the  India  cabinet.  It  is  a  white  marble  finger. 

Thus  flow  the  reminiscences  of  Aunt  Emmeline.  The 
memories  of  Ernest  run  as  this  tale  runs. 


THE  ONE  LEFT 

BY    E.    V.    LUCAS 


HE  had  become  very  ill  —  could  hardly  move  from 
where  he  lay;  and  she,  who  loved  him,  and  was  to  have 
married  him,  and  spent  all  her  waking  hours  in  thinking 
what  she  could  do  for  him,  persuaded  him  to  have  a  tele 
phone  installed  and  brought  to  his  bedside  so  that  he  and 
she  could  talk,  and  he  could  talk  with  others,  too.  Every 
night  he  rang  her  up  and  they  had  a  long  conversation; 
many  times  in  the  day  also.  Nothing,  as  it  happened, 
could  have  saved  his  life,  but  this  modern  device  lightened 
his  last  weeks. 

His  death,  although  it  blasted  her  hopes,  made  no  differ 
ence  to  her  devotion.  She  merely  installed  his  memory  in 
the  place  of  his  rich  personality  and  loved  that.  He,  al 
most  more  than  ever,  was  her  standard.  What  he  would 
have  liked,  she  did;  what  he  would  have  disliked,  she  left 
undone.  Although  dead,  he  swayed  her  utterly,  and  under 
his  dominion  she  was  equable  and  gentle,  although  broken 
at  heart.  She  took  all  things  as  they  came,  since  how  could 
anything  matter  now  that  everything  that  mattered  was 

over? 

One  perplexity  only  had  power  to  trouble  her,  and  that 
was  the  wonder,  the  amazement,  the  horror,  not  only  that 
so  much  knowledge  and  kindliness  and  sympathy  and  all 
that  made  for  the  world's  good  and  happiness  should  be  so 
wantonly  extinguished;  but  that  no  touch  of  the  vanished 
hand  should  be  permitted  to  the  one  soul  (now  left  behind) 
with  whom  his  soul  had  been  fused.  This  she  could  neither 


284  THE  ONE  LEFT 

understand  nor  forgive.  Religious  she  had  never  been  in 
the  ordinary  sense,  although  such  religion  as  must  sway  a 
true  idealistic  lover  was  hers;  but  now  she  broke  even  from 
such  slender  ties  as  had  held  her  to  orthodoxy.  She  threw 
off  the  creed  of  her  parents  as  naturally  and  simply  as  if  it 
were  a  borrowed  garment,  and  sank  into  her  sorrow,  which 
was  also  her  joy,  without  another  thought  of  here  or  here 
after. 

So  it  went  on  for  a  year  or  so,  during  which  time  his  house 
had  remained  empty,  save  for  a  caretaker,  —  for  she  (who 
was  rich)  could  not  bear  that  any  one  else  should  live  there, 
—  and  his  room  exactly  as  he  had  died  in  it. 


ii 

One  evening  she  dined  out.  Her  next  neighbor  on  one 
side  was  a  young  American  engineer,  and  in  their  conver 
sation  they  came  in  time  to  the  topic  of  invention  and  the 
curious  aptitude  for  inventiveness  shown  by  the  American 
race.  It  was  a  case,  said  the  engineer,  of  supply  following 
demand;  all  Americans  required  time-  and  labor-saving 
appliances,  and  they  obtained  them.  Where  servants 
abounded  and  there  was  no  servant  problem,  as  in  England 
and  on  the  Continent,  the  need  for  such  contrivances  was 
not  acute.  And  so  on.  The  conversation  thus  begun 
reached  at  last  specific  inventions,  and  the  engineer  told  of 
a  remarkable  one  which  had  come  under  his  notice  just 
before  he  left  New  York. 

'You  will  probably  not  believe  me,'  he  said;  'the  thing 
sounds  incredible;  but  then  who  would  have  believed  once 
that  there  could  be  a  telegraph,  and  still  less  a  telephone? 
Who  would  have  believed  that  the  camera  would  ever  be 
anything  but  a  dream?  I  will  tell  you  what  this  is.  It  is 
a  machine  in  which  you  insert  a  portion,  no  matter  how 


THE  ONE  LEFT  285 

small,  of  a  telephone  wire,  and  by  turning  a  handle  you 
compel  this  piece  of  wire  to  give  back  every  message  that 
has  ever  passed  over  it.' 

She  held  her  heart.  'This  really  exists? '  she  forced  her 
self  to  ask. 

*  Actually/  said  the  engineer.  '  But  when  I  left  home  the 
inventor  was  in  a  difficulty.  All  the  messages  were  coming 
out  all  right,  but  backwards.  Naturally  the  reproduction 
would  be  from  the  most  recent  to  the  less  recent.  By  writ 
ing  down  the  words  and  then  reversing  them  the  investiga 
tor  could  of  course  get  at  what  he  was  wanting,  —  I  may 
say  that  the  invention  is  for  the  New  York  police  —  but 
my  friend  is  convinced  that  he  can  devise  some  mechanical 
system  of  reversing  at  the  time  which  will  make  the  mes 
sages  read  forward  as  they  should.  Just  think  of  the  ex 
citement  of  the  detective,  listening  through  all  the  voices 
and  ordinary  conversations  on  the  wire  for  the  one  voice 
and  the  one  sentence  that  will  give  him  his  long  desired 
clue!  —  But  are  you  ill? ' 

'No,  no,'  she  said,  although  her  face  was  a  ghastly  white, 
'  no,  it  is  nothing.  The  room  is  a  little  hot.  Tell  me  some 
more  about  your  inventive  friend.  Is  he  wealthy?' 

'  Indeed,  no,'  said  the  engineer.  ' That  is  his  trouble.  If 
he  had  more  money,  or  if  he  had  some  rich  backers  who 
believed  in  him,  he  might  do  wonders.' 

'  I  should  like  to  help  him,'  she  said.  ' This  kind  of  work 
interests  me.  Could  you  not  cable  him  to  come  over  and 
bring  the  thing  with  him?  I  would  gladly  finance  him.  I 
want  some  sporting  outlet  like  that  for  my  money.' 

'Cable?' 

'Yes,  cable.  There  are  things  that  one  does  by  impulse 
or  not  at  all.  The  butler  here  will  get  you  a  form.' 


286  THE  ONE  LEFT 

in 

She  had  been  to  the  empty  house  that  day  with  an  em 
ployee  of  the  telephone  company,  and  they  had  extracted 
a  foot  of  the  precious  wire.  A  few  minutes  ago  she  had 
held  it  in  her  trembling  fingers  and  placed  it  in  the  machine. 
Now  she  carefully  locked  the  door  and  drew  the  heavy 
curtain  over  it  and  carried  the  machine  to  the  farthest  cor 
ner  of  the  room.  There,  with  a  sigh  of  relief  and  tense  and 
almost  terrible  anticipation,  she  sat  down  and  placed  her 
ear  to  the  receiver  and  began  to  turn  the  handle. 

His  voice  sounded  at  once:  'Are  you  there?'  It  was 
quite  clear,  so  clear  and  unmistakable  and  actual  that  her 
hand  paused  on  the  handle  and  she  bowed  her  throbbing 
head.  She  turned  on;  'Are  you  there? '  the  familiar  tones 
repeated.  And  then  the  reply,  'Yes,  who  is  it?'  in  a 
woman's  voice.  Then  he  spoke  again:  'Ernest,'  he  said. 
'Is  it  Helen?'  Again  her  hand  paused.  Helen  —  that 
rubbishy  little  woman  he  had  known  all  his  life  and  was  on 
such  good  terms  with.  She  remembered  now,  that  she  had 
been  away  when  the  telephone  was  installed  and  others  had 
talked  on  it  before  her.  It  could  not  be  helped:  she  had 
meant  to  be  the  first,  but  circumstances  prevented.  There 
must  be  many  conversations  before  she  came  to  her  own; 
she  would  have  to  listen  to  them  all.  She  turned  on, 
and  the  laughing,  chaffing  conversation  with  this  foolish 
little  Helen  person  repeated  itself  out  of  the  past  now  so 
tragic. 

To  other  talks  with  other  friends,  and  now  and  then  with 
a  tradesman,  she  had  to  listen;  but  at  last  came  her  hour. 

'Is  that  you? '  she  heard  her  own  voice  saying,  knowing 
it  was  her  own  rather  by  instinct  than  by  hearing.  'Is 
that  you?  But  I  know  it  is.  How  distinctly  you  speak!' 

'  Yes,  it's  me '  —  and  his  soft  vibrant  laugh. 


THE  ONE  LEFT  287 

'How  are  you,  dear? ' 

*  Better,  I  hope/ 

'Have  you  missed  me? ' 

'Missed  you!' 

And  then  the  endearments,  the  confidences,  the  hopes  and 
fears,  the  plans  for  the  morrow,  the  plans  for  all  life.  As 
she  listened,  the  tears  ran  down  her  face,  but  still  she  turned 
on  and  on.  Sometimes  he  was  so  hopeful  and  bright,  and 
again  so  despairing. 

She  remembered  the  occasion  of  every  word.  Once  she 
had  dined  out  and  had  gone  to  the  theatre.  It  was  an 
engagement  she  could  not  well  refuse.  It  was  an  amusing 
play  and  she  was  in  good  spirits.  She  rang  him  up  between 
the  acts  and  found  him  depressed.  Hurrying  home  she  had 
settled  down  to  talk  to  him  at  her  ease.  How  it  all  came 
back  to  her  now ! 

'  Are  you  there,  my  dearest? ' 

'Yes,  but  oh,  so  tired,  so  old!' 

'It  is  a  bad  day.  Every  one  has  been  complaining  of 
tiredness  to-day.' 

'You  say  that  because  you  are  kind.  Just  to  comfort 
me.  It's  no  use.  I  can  see  so  clearly,  sometimes,  I  shall 
never  get  well  —  to-night  I  know  it.' 

'My  darling,  no.' 

And  then  silence,  —  complete,  terrifying. 

She  had  rung  up  without  effect.  He  had  fainted,  she 
thought,  and  had  dropped  the  receiver.  She  was  in  a  fever 
of  agony.  She  leaped  into  a  cab  and  drove  to  his  house. 
The  nurse  reassured  her;  he  had  begun  to  sob  and  did  not 
want  her  to  know  it,  and  now  he  was  asleep. 

But  there  was  no  sleep  for  her  that  night.     What  if  he 
were  right  —  if  he  really  knew?     In  her  heart  she  feared 
that  he  did;  with  the  rest  of  her  she  fought  that  fear. 
As  she  listened,  the  tears  ran  down  her  face,  but  still  she 


288  THE  ONE  LEFT 

turned  on  and  on.  She  sat  there  for  hours  before  the  last 
words  came,  the  last  he  was  ever  to  speak  over  the  wire. 

It  was  to  make  an  engagement.  He  had  rallied  wonder 
fully  at  the  end  and  was  confident  of  recovery.  She  was  to 
bring  her  modiste  to  his  room  at  eleven  o'clock  the  next 
morning  with  her  patterns,  that  he  might  help  in  choosing 
her  new  dress.  He  had  insisted  on  it  —  the  dress  she  was 
to  wear  on  his  first  outing. 

*  At  eleven,'  he  had  said.  *  Mind  you  don't  forget.  But 
then  you  never  forget  anything.  Good-night  once  more, 
my  sweet.' 

'Good-night/ 

She  had  never  seen  him  again  alive.  He  died  before  the 
morning. 

She  put  the  machine  away  and  looked  out  of  the  window. 
The  sun  had  risen.  The  sky  was  on  fire  with  the  promise 
of  a  beautiful  day.  Worn  out,  she  fell  asleep ;  to  wake  —  to 
what?  To  such  awakening  as  there  is  for  those  who  never 
forget  anything. 


IV 

Every  night  found  her  bending  over  the  machine.  She 
had  learned  now  when  not  to  listen.  She  had  timed  the 
reproduction  absolutely,  and  watch  in  hand  she  waited 
until  the  other  messages  were  done,  and  her  own  voice  be 
gan.  There  was  no  condensing  possible;  one  must  either 
each  time  have  every  conversation  or  stop  it.  But  how 
could  she  stop  it  before  the  end? 

Locking  the  door  and  drawing  the  heavy  curtain,  she 
would  sit  down  in  the  far  corner  and  begin  to  turn.  She 
knew  just  how  fast  to  turn  for  others;  so  slowly  for  herself. 
When  the  watch  gave  her  the  signal  she  would  begin  to 
listen. 


THE  ONE  LEFT  289 

'Is  that  you?     Is  that  you?     But  I  know  it  is.     How 
distinctly  you  speak ! ' 

'Yes,  it's  me/—  and  the  soft  vibrant  laugh. 
'How  are  you,  dear? ' 
'Better,  I  hope.' 
'Have  you  missed  me? ' 
'  Missed  you ! ' 


THE   LEGACY  OF  RICHARD  HUGHES 

BY   MARGARET   LYNN 


RACHEL  MARQUIS  paused  a  moment  with  her  hand  on 
the  library-door.  She  had  had  John  placed  in  here  because 
it  was  the  room  she  herself  loved  best,  and  she  knew  that 
it  was  here  she  would  prefer  to  sit  beside  him  in  these  last 
hours  of  waiting.  Yet  she  had  hesitated  to  come  down,  and 
even  now,  with  her  hand  on  the  door-knob,  she  lingered 
again  to  re-strengthen  herself  before  entering.  The  very 
unusualness  of  an  unfamiliar  sight  in  the  familiar  room 
would  add,  she  knew,  to  the  sharp  strangeness  of  the  whole 
event.  She  almost  hoped,  as  she  waited  this  moment,  for 
another  practical  duty  of  some  sort,  which  would  postpone 
again  her  entrance  to  the  room. 

But  no  sound  came  from  any  part  of  the  silenced  house, 
and  she  opened  the  door  and  entered.  The  long  casket 
stood  awkwardly  across  the  blank  fireplace,  for  she  had 
chosen  to  give  no  direction  to  the  undertaker  and  he  had 
followed  his  own  professional  judgment.  Everything  was 
arranged,  however,  with  a  sort  of  intention  which  indi 
cated  the  intrusion  of  the  professional  into  the  private. 
In  spite  of  the  stronger  feeling  of  the  moment,  Rachel  Mar 
quis  noticed  this,  with  sharp  disapproval.  But  she  went 
directly  to  the  chair  which  had  been  placed  beside  the  cas 
ket  and  seated  herself,  bowing  her  head  long  on  her  folded 
arms  before  she  looked  on  the  familiar  face  beside  her. 

It  was  now  only  twenty-four  hours  since  the  strange  ac 
cident  had  happened,  and  she  had  not  yet  adjusted  her 
self,  even  so  far  as  to  determine  her  fundamental  emotion. 


THE  LEGACY  OF  RICHARD  HUGHES          291 

It  was  grief,  of  course,  but  the  kind  or  degree  of  that  grief 
was  still  undefined.  The  hours  since  they  had  brought  him 
home  had  been  so  full  of  the  unfamiliar  practical  things 
which  arise  at  such  a  time,  of  the  sudden  necessities  and 
small  perplexities  which  muddle  and  chafe  sorrow,  that 
there  had  been  scarcely  a  moment  for  her  to  look  con 
sciously  at  the  great  fact.  Even  now,  as  she  covered  her 
eyes,  to  be  the  more  alone  with  herself,  she  felt  rather  a 
welcoming  of  momentary  inactivity,  than  the  relaxation 
of  grief.  She  realized,  with  a  sort  of  pang  of  disapproval, 
that  she  did  not  need  to  relax  from  any  tension  of  anguish. 
She  did  not  know  what  she  wished  to  say  to  herself  in  this 
communion.  She  was  sorry,  bitterly  sorry;  but  what  ele 
ments  went  into  the  making  of  that  grief?  —  She  could 
not  yet  tell. 

So  she  leaned  with  covered  eyes,  almost  as  if  she  were 
waiting  for  something  outside  of  herself  to  give  her  a  cue. 
As  the  minutes  passed,  however,  the  great  simple  fact  that 
John  was  dead  and  that  his  place  beside  her  would  now  be 
empty,  engrossed  all  supplementary  feelings,  and  her 
genuine  regret  had  its  way.  She  wept  long,  and  ever  more 
bitterly,  absorbed,  as  one  may  be,  in  a  mere  physical  ex 
pression  of  grief.  The  activity  of  sorrow  overcame  thought 
for  the  time,  and  left  her  no  energy  for  analysis  of  feeling. 
Death  alone  seemed  enough  to  weep  over,  and  her  tears 
still  fell. 

At  last,  as  if  having  reached  a  natural  period,  she  rose 
and  moved  away  to  the  window  and  sat  down  there,  in  a 
quiet  reverie  of  sadness.  She  was  sorry  for  the  life  cut  off, 
shocked  at  the  abruptness  and  completeness  of  the  trag 
edy,  —  John  himself,  she  was  sure,  the  assertive,  ener 
gizing  John,  would  have  hated  this  sudden  subduing  of 
himself,  and  she  sympathized  with  such  revolt,  —  sorry, 
sorry  for  it  all. 


292         THE  LEGACY  OF  RICHARD  HUGHES 

As  she  thought,  she  looked  gravely  out  across  the  gar 
den,  the  gay  streteh  to  which  John  had  given  so  much 
time.  She  had  never  understood  his  devotion  to  that  gar 
den.  He  had  not  been  ready  to  spend  money  on  things  to 
give  aesthetic  pleasure  in  the  house,  although  in  practical 
matters  he  had  been  willing  enough  to  make  outlays,  ever 
since  his  business  had  been  secure.  She  thought  of  their 
new  car,  of  the  signs  of  prosperity  in  their  living.  'Poor 
John! '  she  said  at  last  with  a  deep  sigh,  when,  aware  of  the 
nodding  line  of  rare  dahlias  on  which  her  eyes  were  resting, 
she  thought  of  all  the  pains  he  had  taken  in  the  propagation 
and  selection  of  them.  She  had  come  to  recognize  this 
lavishness  of  care  and  money  as  a  sort  of  blind  expression  of 
the  one  aesthetic  element  in  his  nature,  and  had  felt  a  quiet 
approval  of  it.  'Poor  John!'  she  sighed  again,  and  turned 
from  the  window  to  go. 

But  even  as  she  did  so,  the  simplicity  of  her  mood  passed, 
and  the  old  complexity  of  feeling  returned  with  a  keenness 
which  was  for  the  moment  bewildering.  As  she  left  the 
window,  the  long  black  shape  across  the  fireplace  con 
fronted  her  again,  and  she  paused,  startled  anew;  it  was  so 
strange  and  so  tremendous  a  thing  in  her  room. 

For  the  library  was,  above  everything  else  in  the  world, 
hers.  It  was  such  a  room  as  shows  it  has  been  taking  on 
character  through  succeeding  decades,  cumulative  of  its 
type,  slowly  drawing  to  itself  an  atmosphere  of  fineness  and 
greatness.  The  credit  of  it  belonged  only  remotely  to 
Rachel  Marquis.  She  was  the  possessor,  but  not  the  maker 
of  it.  She  had  kept  it  and  loved  it,  but  her  own  contribu 
tion  to  it  had  been  slight.  A  few  shelves  of  new  books  not 
yet  mellowed  down  to  the  tone  of  the  others,  standing  as  if 
waiting  to  be  proved,  and  a  bit  of  renewing  of  texture  here 
and  there,  whose  freshness  showed  need  of  the  softening  of 
time,  were  the  only  marks  of  her  hand  or  taste.  But  it  was 


THE  LEGACY  OF  RICHARD   HUGHES          293 

such  a  room  as  any  lover  of  the  long  effects  of  books  would 
cherish. 

In  the  midst  of  its  harmonies,  the  heavy  black  box  un 
doubtedly  looked  harsh  and  intrusive.  Rachel  recognized, 
as  a  sort  of  confidence  with  herself,  that  bringing  it  here  was 
an  invasion.  Because  she  loved  the  room  herself  she  had 
placed  John  here,  without  thought  of  the  inappropriateness 
of  the  act.  But  now  the  incongruity  of  the  choice  struck 
her.  Why  should  he  be  brought  here,  she  thought  pitifully, 
to  the  room  he  never  "frequented,  where  she  scarcely  wel 
comed  him,  she  acknowledged?  Why  should  she  sit  be 
side  him  here,  when  she  had  so  seldom  done  so  before? 
She  remembered  very  well  the  manner  with  which  he  oc 
casionally  sought  her  here,  tentative,  unfamiliar,  and  yet 
assertive.  She  had  resented  every  element  of  that  manner. 
Anywhere  else  in  the  house  he  was  more  nearly  himself; 
here  everything  she  did  not  desire  in  him  was  accentuated. 

It  had  been,  she  thought,  with  an  instinctive  desire  to 
do  the  best  for  him  in  every  way,  that  she  had  directed 
that  he  should  be  placed  here;  just  as  she  had  ordered 
everything  of  the  choicest  and  had  given  her  most  careful 
attention  and  taste  to  every  detail.  But  this  thought  had 
been  a  failure. 

'Peer  John!'  she  said  gently  once  more,  with  a  pity  in 
her  thought  all  the  greater  for  this  very  incongruity,  as 
she  came  over  and  stood  beside  him.  My^s  her  eyes  rested 
on  his  face,  she  felt  almost  compelled  to  withdraw  the 
phrase.  The  dead  man  seemed  to  allow  no  such  pity. 
The  unfamiliar  in  the  familiar,  which  is  stranger  than  a 
new  thing,  held  her  startled  attention  as  she  looked.  She 
had  thought  that  she  knew  John  Marquis  to  the  last  shred 
of  his  character,  but  death  seemed  to  have  laid  a  fineness 
she  had  never  known  over  the  stubbornness  and  taciturn 
ity  of  the  face.  The  dignity  of  the  last  great  experience  of 


294          THE  LEGACY  OF  RICHARD  HUGHES 

his  life  seemed  to  mark  him.  He  seemed  to  be  gathering 
himself  away  from  her  pitying  kindness.  Very  soon  she 
went  out  again  and  closed  the  door. 


ii 

When  Richard  Hughes,  the  last  of  his  family,  left  his 
mother's  old  home  to  John  and  Rachel  Marquis,  no  one 
had  wondered.  Rachel  was  a  sort  of  cousin  and  John,  too, 
a  distant  connection  by  somebody's  marriage.  And  they 
lived  in  the  town  and  nothing  was  more  natural  than  that 
he  should  give  them  a  home  there,  and  whatever  else  he 
had  to  leave. 

What  no  one  knew  but  Rachel  was  that  Richard  Hughes 
had  wished  to  marry  her,  and  that  she  had  refused  him  and 
chosen  John  Marquis  instead.  Richard  Hughes,  fifteen 
years  her  senior,  quiet  and  inexpressive,  shut  in  with  books 
and  remote  from  life,  was  far  less  to  her  mind  than  John 
Marquis,  who  was  of  her  own  generation,  with  whom  she 
went  to  parties  and  talked  the  light  talk  of  youth,  and  had 
a  thousand  things  in  common,  as  she  thought.  John  was 
bright  and  jolly,  and  played  tennis  and  danced  with  her 
and  took  her  out  in  a  canoe,  and  was  sweet-tempered  and 
loved  to  laugh,  and  between  times  talked  seriously  about 
the  business  he  was  starting  and  the  money  he  expected 
to  make.  John  belonged  to  the  whole  format  of  her  life  at 
that  time,  and  it  was  perfectly  natural  to  choose  to  marry 
him,  with  the  expectation  that  life  would  go  on  as  she  and 
John  had  both  known  it  and  liked  it  in  other  homes,  com 
fortable,  sensible,  ambitious  of  practical  things,  real,  as 
their  kind  would  call  it.  It  seemed  an  impossible  thing  for 
her  not  to  marry  John. 

In  the  first  years  of  their  marriage  she  was  proud  of  com 
ing  quickly  to  understand  John's  business.  She  was 


THE  LEGACY  OF  RICHARD   HUGHES          295 

proud  of  her  management  and  her  well-timed  economies, 
proud  that  John  could  talk  affairs  over  with  her  with  satis 
faction,  that  she  was  beginning  to  take  the  place  her 
mother  and  other  successful  women  had  taken  in  practical 
life.  But  after  two  or  three  years  had  passed,  the  space 
taken  by  practical  things  in  her  life  began  to  shrink;  her 
familiarity  with  them  detracted  from  their  interest  and 
allowed  her  to  dispose  of  them  more  readily.  She  began  to 
feel  a  restlessness  which  called  for  new  interests. 

At  the  same  time  John's  affairs  were  not  prospering. 
Difficulties  he  could  not  manage  hampered  him.;  All 
Rachel's  advice  and  economies  were  of  little  help  among 
the  inevitable  conditions  of  the  time.  She  was  becoming 
tired  of  the  Continual  effort  to  acquire,  and  impatient  of 
the  atmosphere  of  practical  things.  But  she  made  a  show 
of  readiness  when  he  suggested  that  they  give  up  the 
cheerful  modern  home  they  had  fitted  about  themselves, 
with  the  conventions  of  comfort  a^d  the  furnishings  and 
decorations  to  which  they  had  been  adapted. 

It  was  just  at  this  time  that  Richard  Hughes  left  them 
his  home  and  the  little  money  he  owned.  Nothing  could 
have  been  more  opportune  for  them.  Whatever  other 
feelings  John  may  have  had  were  absorbed  in  sheer  relief 
at  the  assistance  the  bequest  brought  him.  The  money, 
with  that  from  the  sale  of  their  own  house,  tided  him  over 
his  difficulties  and  even  helped  to  develop  his  business 
further.  Rachel  concealed  her  reluctance  at  moving  into 
the  out-of-date  old  house  with  its  antiquated  furnishings, 
and  made  a  show  of  welcoming  their  fortune  as  a  good 
partner  should. 

She  could  hardly  tell  when  her  consciousness  of  the  house 
began  to  have  its  influence  upon  her.  From  the  first,  John, 
absorbed  in  business,  left  all  practical  things  to  her,  feeling 
that  the  house  was  more  hers  than  his  anyway.  She,  in  a 


296         THE  LEGACY  OF  RICHARD  HUGHES 

mood  of  vague  compunction  and  desire  to  compensate  for 
she  hardly  knew  what,  made  it  a  point  of  honor  to  dispose 
of  all  their  own  furniture,  chosen  with  such  satisfaction 
and  complacency,  and  settled  among  the  dull  tones  and 
quiet  spaces  of  the  old  house. 

'Gay  old  place,  isn't  it?'  said  John,  walking  through 
the  house  after  they  were  established. 

Rachel  assented  with  a  cheerful  smile. 

'Oh,  well,'  he  went  on,  settling  down  with  his  trade- 
journals,  which  looked  sadly  out  of  place  in  the  dim 
library,  'we  can  stand  it  for  a  while.  Some  time  we  can 
have  what  we  want  again.' 

It  was  months  before  he  recurred  to  the  subject  directly. 
Then,  one  Sunday,  he  looked  about  him  as  he  sat  stretched 
in  an  old  easy-chair,  and  said  abruptly,  'We  are  getting 
pretty  well  settled  down  here.  I  didn't  think  the  old 
place  would  be  so  comfortable. ' 

'  It  is  more  than  comfortable, '  said  Rachel  quietly. 

'  I  wonder  why  Richard  ever  left  it  to  us.  Have  you  ever 
figured  it  out?' 

'  Oh,  he  had  no  nearer  relatives  that  he  knew. '  Rachel 
tried  to  speak  in  a  matter-of-fact  way,  but  instead  she 
hesitated  and  flushed  a  little. 

John  looked  at  her  closely.  'Do  you  know  any  other 
reason?'  he  asked  curiously. 

Rachel  hesitated  again.  Mere  reticence  on  past  affairs 
was  one  thing;  positively  keeping  a  secret  from  her  hus 
band  was  another.  'Richard  wanted  to  marry  me  once,' 
she  said.  '  But  I  don't  think  that  had  anything  to  do  with 
it,'  she  added  hastily. 

'When  was  that?' 

'Oh  —  before  I  was  engaged  to  you/  said  Rachel,  and 
smiled  at  him. 

John  said  nothing  more,  but  sat  tapping  his  knee  with 


THE  LEGACY  OF  RICHARD   HUGHES          297 

his  folded  newspaper,  as  was  his  habit  when  in  thought. 
Presently  he  rose  and  strolled  away. 

Rachel  could  not  help  resenting  his  silence,  which  left 
her  in  discomfort.  When  so  much  had  been  said  he  should 
have  said  more,  if  only  to  put  her  at  her  ease.  For  days 
afterwards  she  expected  him  to  return  to  the  subject,  and 
when  he  did  not  do  so,  she  continued  to  resent  the  implica 
tion  he  seemed  to  be  making. 

At  this  time  the  house  itself  had  already  begun  to  have 
its  effect  upon  her.  Rachel  could  hardly  tell  when  she 
stopped  looking  wistfully  at  the  sectional  bookcases  and 
mission  furniture  of  her  acquaintances.  But  soon  after 
she  moved  into  it,  the  house  had  ceased  to  be  to  her  merely 
a  house.  With  her  conventionally  modern  notions  of 
beauty  in  furnishings,  she  had  first  been  surprised  to  find 
how  at  rest  and  how  satisfied  she  was  in  this  house,  which 
had  met  in  a  generous  way  the  needs  and  tastes  of  another 
generation,  but  met  few  of  those  to  which  she  had  been 
trained.  She  had  not  known  that  it  was  in  her  to  find  a 
charm  in  such  a  house.  But  from  the  time  when  she  first 
became  aware  of  a  positive  quality  in  the  place,  she  be 
came  more  and  more  awake  to  its  existence ;  she  wondered 
at  it,  but  it  held  her  attention  constantly  more  firmly. 

At  last  she  found  that  behind  the  entity  of  the  house 
lay  that  which  had  made  it  —  the  personality  of  the  gen 
erations  gone  and  especially  of  its  last  owner.  The  quality 
of  the  whole  place,  with  its  solidity  of  walls  and  generosity 
of  room,  along  with  its  plain  sincerity  in  every  detail, 
seemed  to  indicate  praiseworthiness,  not  only  in  the  first 
builder,  but  in  all  later  possessors.  It  became  a  meritorious 
thing  to  have  and  to  keep  a  house  like  this.  She  remem 
bered  something  of  the  sacrifices  that  Richard  Hughes 
had  made  to  retain  it,  and  warmed  with  pride  of  him  at 
the  recollection. 


298          THE  LEGACY  OF  RICHARD  HUGHES 

The  whole  place  reflected  him  and  the  people  who  had 
made  him.  Gradually  Rachel  grew  in  pride  of  the  house 
and  of  her  heritage.  As  she  lived  there  month  by  month 
she  found  herself  enveloped  in  its  atmosphere  and  growing 
toward  its  proportions.  At  first  she  entered  the  library 
with  timidity  and  an  uncomfortable  strangeness.  Even 
one  who  had  only  very  superficial  intellectual  tastes  must 
have  felt  a  sort  of  awe  before  its  accumulation  of  books  and 
their  accompaniments.  When  Rachel  and  John  had  first 
begun  to  make  a  home,  they  had  placed  the  making  of  a 
library  among  their  ambitions  /«r  it,  and  had  taken  pleas 
ure  in  adding  a  few  gay ly bound  novels  each  year  to  the 
small  united  collection- with  which  they  had  begun.  They 
had  enjoyed  seeing  their  few  shelves  grow,  and  knowing 
that  they  had  so  many  of  the  popular  books  of  which  their 
friends  talked.  When  they  came  to  the  Hughes  home, 
RachpHiad  crowded  their  parti-colored  collection  into  the 
shelves  of  the  library  there,  weeding  out  others  to  make 
room  for  their  own. 

But  on  a  later  day,  as  she  reentered  the  room,  she  felt  a 
shock  at  the  incongruity  presented  and,  to  John's  puzzle 
ment,  gathered  their  own  books  into  a  corner  by  themselves 
where  a  curtain  safely  hid  them.  Their  garish  triviality 
had  no  place  among  these  mellowed,  long-tried  volumes. 
John,  however,  had  looked  the  old  volumes  over  mid-prO- 
nounced  them  a  dry  lot  —  give  him  something  fresher. 

But  Rachel  perceived  that  there  had  been  something  in 
the  choosing  of  these  books  which  she  had  never  really 
known.  To  her,  books  had  beeh  an  accessory,  an  inci 
dental  thing,  hypothetically  an  enrichment  of  life,  but  not 
an  essential.  She  had  thought  of  intellectual  exercise  as  an 
intermittent  thing,  to  be  taken  up  or  laid  down  as  suited 
the  mood  of  the  time.  But  here  was  a  people  who  chose 


THE  LEGACY  OF  RICHARD   HUGHES          299 

books  not  merely  as  a  desirable  possession,  an  ornamental 
furnishing,  but  as  an  unquestioned  necessity. 

Gradually,  as  she  continued  to  handle  and  to  know  their 
books,  she  evoked  for  herself  the  earlier  presences  of  the 
Chouse,  most  of  all  Richard  Hughes.  In  the  long  hours 
which  she  now  spent  alone  about  the  house,  she  found  her 
self  living  more  constantly  in  a  companionship  with  those 
minds.  They  were  not  only  an  atmosphere,  but  sometimes 
almost  a  positive  presence.  It  entertained  her  to  go  over 
the  books  one  by  one,  sometimes,  deciding  who  had  chosen 
this  one  and  that  one,  and  for  what  reason,  and  picturing 
the  occasion  of  its  coming  to  his  hand.  As  her  knowledge 
of  the  library  grew,  she  took  more  and  more  pleasure  in 
this,  tracing  the  taste  of  one  owner  or  another  in  the  recur 
rence  of  a  subject  or  in  successive  accretions.  She,  as  she 
learned,  glowed  over  her  collection  of  first  editions  of  mod 
ern  works,  since  they  had  been  chosen,  not  as  first  edi 
tions,  but,  in  their  own  time,  as  works  for  which  an  appre 
ciative  hand  was  eagerly  waiting. 

And  since  Richard  Hughes  was  the  only  one  of  her  pred 
ecessors  in  the  library  whom  she  had  known,  she  found 
herself  embodying  all  the  others  in  him.  She  knew  him 
now  better  than  she  had  ever  known  him.  She  could  de 
tect  his  additions  to  the  treasures  of  the  house,  and,  as  her 
own  knowledge  increased,  could  trace  his  using  of  the  re 
sources  which  had  been  handed  down  to  him.  She  began 
to  take  pleasure  in  following  what  she  thought  had  been 
his  path  in  taste  and  knowledge,  gradually  matching  her 
mind  to  his  own. 

Her  pride  in  the  room  went  through  successive  stages. 
In  her  first  days  of  satisfaction  in  mere  proprietorship  of 
so  respectable  and  worthy  a  possession,  she  took  pleasure 
in  unostentatious  exhibition  of  it.  She  liked  to  take  guests 
there,  in  a  natural  sort  of  way,  and  to  be  found  sitting 


300          THE  LEGACY  OF  RICHARD  HUGHES 

there,  by  unexpected  callers.  She  liked  the  eminently  ad 
mirable  background  of  the  rows  of  books,  for  social  epi 
sodes.  But  as  her  knowledge  of  the  library  grew,  that 
stage  passed.  As  she  went  from  familiarity  to  intimacy, 
she  began  to  desire  that  it  should  be  an  exclusive  intimacy. 
She  no  longer  took  callers  to  the  room,  and  when  familiar 
acquaintances  found  their  way  there,  she  was  uneasy  at 
their  handling  of  the  books  and  impatient  of  their  discus 
sion  of  them.  She  now  seldom  spontaneously  took  strang 
ers  there.  In  time  she  had  come  to  group  John  with  all  the 
others.  The  only  companionship  that  she  desired  in  the 
library  was  an  imagined  one. 

John's  attitude  had  more  and  more  set  her  apart  in  this 
companionship.  His  dislike  for  the  house  had  grown 
steadily  more  obvious  as  the  months  and  years  passed. 
It  showed  itself  in  a  lack  of  home-pride,  in  open  contempt 
for  the  old-fashioned  elements  of  the  place,  in  reluctance  to 
make  even  necessary  expenditure  upon  it. 

But  Rachel  herself  had  hardly  guessed  the  strength  of 
his  feeling  until  one  day  when  she  discovered  among  Rich 
ard  Hughes 's  papers  what  seemed  to  be  a  memorandum 
for  a  codicil  to  his  will,  which  wrould  make  a  gift  of  a 
thousand  dollars  to  the  little  public  library  of  the  town. 

She  took  the  note  directly  to  John.  'I  think  we  ought 
to  do  this, '  she  said. 

John  looked  at  the  paper  and  laid  it  down.  '  I  don't  see 
that  we  are  obliged  to, '  he  answered  shortly. 

*  It  is  what  he  intended  to  do  —  and  we  got  the  money, ' 
she  said,  with  too  patient  a  manner,  as  if  explaining  the 
moral  point  to  him.  '  We  should  give  it  in  his  name. ' 

'It  is  enough  to  have  to  live  in  Richard  Hughes's  house. 
I  don't  care  to  set  up  a  memorial  for  him  besides. ' 

'  But  John, '  she  urged  herself  to  argue, '  is  it  honest? ' 

'There  is  more  than  one  kind  of  honesty,'  said  John 


THE  LEGACY  OF  RICHARD   HUGHES          301 

shortly,  in  a  tone  which  checked  further  answer.  'I  can't 
afford  it, '  he  added  after  a  moment,  as  the  final  word. 

She  left  him  in  an  anger  which  it  seemed  to  her  she 
would  feel  all  her  life.  But  gradually  it  became  less  an 
active  feeling  than  a  part  of  all  her  unformulated  opinion 
of  him.  He  had  not  followed  her  a  single  step  in  the  devel 
opment  which  had  resulted  from  her  awakening  to  the 
spirit  of  the  house.  In  time  he  came  to  ignore  the  library 
altogether  as  part  of  the  house,  and  by  degrees  fitted  up  an 
incongruous  little  lounging-place  upstairs.  Rachel  came 
to  regard  his  whole  attitude  toward  the  place  and  the  man 
who  had  owned  it  as  belonging  to  his  mental  and  aesthetic 
plane;  his  jealous  ingratitude  seemed  not  a  separate  feel 
ing,  but  only  an  element  in  his  character. 

Richard  Hughes,  she  now  understood  very  well,  had 
known  her  very  little,  and  had  loved  only  her  prettiness 
and  light  girlishness,  charms  which  were  different  from 
anything  in  his  own  life.  The  recollection  of  that  episode 
did  not  flatter  her  now,  or  even  afford  her  any  special 
gratification.  But  she  loved  to  live  side  by  side  with  the 
embodiment  she  had  re-created  for  herself,  and  was  proud 
to  feel  her  spirit  matching  its  spirit.  She  sometimes  felt, 
with  her  growing  imagination,  that  she  was  living  in  the 
house,  not  with  John,  but  with  these  presences  of  the  past 
—  most  of  all  with  Richard  Hughes. 

But  in  the  mean  time  the  matter  of  the  bequest  assumed 
for  her  constantly  greater  proportions.  After  some  time 
had  passed  she  ventured  to  mention  it  again.  He  answered 
as  before,  'I  can't  afford  it!'  She  knew  that  he  could  af 
ford  it.  About  the  same  time  he  bought  a  strip  of  ground 
lying  beside  them  and  began  his  garden.  Rachel  suggested 
that  he  take  a  piece  of  their  own  grounds,  but  he  bluntly 
rejected  the  proposal.  A  growing  taciturnity  marked  his 
manner,  and  often  a  willful  crudeness  of  phrase  and  speech, 


302          THE  LEGACY  OF  RICHARD  HUGHES 

which  annoyed  her  almost  to  the  point  of  reproof.  So  far 
as  was  possible,  however,  she  kept  the  recognition  of  all 
this  far  in  the  background  of  her  thought  and  forebore 
any  conscious  criticism  of  him,  even  to  herself.  But  her 
warmest  feeling  for  him  was  tinged  with  pity. 

Yesterday  he  had  been  taken.  This  accident,  sudden  as 
a  lightning-flash  and  more  unforeseen,  had  ended  the  rela 
tion  between  them  —  though  not  the  puzzle.  Rachel  had 
never  been  one  to  revise  her  opinion  of  a  man  because  he 
was  dead.  Her  tears  had  fallen  now,  but  she  had  no  com 
punctious  self-deception,  and  her  long-framed  feelings 
were  only  complicated,  not  really  altered.  She  saw  as 
clearly  as  ever  the  incongruity  of  her  husband's  presence 
in  this  room  where  Richard  Hughes  had  had  his  life,  and 
where  she  now  had  her  own. 


in 

All  waited  for  the  coming  of  John's  brother,  David  Mar 
quis.  David  was  an  elder  brother,  retired  from  business  on 
some  pretext  or  other,  now  loitering  his  way  profitably 
and  pleasantly  through  the  later  half  of  his  life.  It  had 
been  his  custom  to  visit  them  frequently,  spending  weeks 
at  a  time  idling  about  the  house,  quiet,  keen  of  look,  ready 
to  talk  with  interest  on  any  general  topic,  but  incommuni 
cative  of  opinion  on  any  personal  matter.  Rachel  had  al 
ways  felt,  as  she  saw  his  observant  eye  first  upon  John 
and  then  upon  her,  that  he  saw  the  difference  between  them 
and  sympathized  with  her.  For  this  reason,  although  she 
had  never  critized  John  to  him,  she  had  sometimes  spoken 
freely  of  herself  and  of  her  own  tastes  and  wishes;  and  he 
had  listened,  quietly  as  ever,  but  responsively. 

She  had  a  sort  of  feeling  now  that  she  would  find  her 
poise  through  him  when  he  came.  A  sympathetic  eye 


THE  LEGACY  OF  RICHARD   HUGHES          303 

would  help  her  to  adjust  the  degree  of  her  grief  to  the 
limits  of  her  previous  feeling. 

It  was  eight  o'clock  when  he  arrived.  The  pretext  of 
dinner  in  the  house  was  over,  and  even  the  neighborly  and 
professional  attentions  of  the  day  were  withdrawn.  Rachel 
descended  from  her  room  in  the  quiet  house  at  the  sound 
of  his  entrance,  and  met  gratefully  the  brotherly  kindliness 
of  his  manner.  They  sat  a  few  minutes  in  the  hall,  in 
question  and  answer  of  his  journey  and  of  the  accident  and 
all  the  circumstantial  things  which  cluster  about  death 
itself.  Rachel  answered  freely  and  fully,  discovering  a  re 
lief  in  breaking  the  instinctive  repression  of  the  day,  and 
finding  the  sort  of  rest  she  had  hoped  for  from  his  presence. 
David  listened  to  her  quietly,  as  he  had  always  done,  with 
his  ready  eye  upon  her. 

At  last  he  rose,  turning  away  from  her  with  a  compre 
hensive  look  about  him. 

*  Where  is  he?'  he  asked  abruptly. 

'In  the  library,'  said  Rachel,  with  a  movement  to  lead 
the  way  for  him. 

'In  there?'  exclaimed  David,  with  the  emphasis  of  sur 
prise.  Then  he  closed  his  lips  again  and  followed  her,  with 
out  meeting  her  questioning  look. 

But  inside  the  door  he  paused  again.  Rachel  had,  con 
strained  by  long  habit,  looked  first  at  the  room,  as  she 
entered,  and  then  at  the  casket,  as  a  separate  thing.  The 
room  had  so  long  served  to  give  her  poise  that  she  felt  a 
sort  of  appeal  to  it  even  now.  David's  eyes  rested  first  on 
the  casket  and  then  swept  the  room  in  a  disapproving  look. 

*  Why  is  he  here?'  he  asked,  with  a  curtness  in  his  easy 
voice  which  Rachel  had  never  heard  from  him  before. 

'Why — •'  she  began  hesitatingly,  and  then  added 
vaguely, '  It  seemed  best. ' 

'Best  for  him? '  responded  David  with  the  same  curtness. 


304          THE  LEGACY  OF  RICHARD  HUGHES 

Then  he  turned  and  dropped  his  head  slowly  over  the 
figure  in  the  coffin,  and  Rachel  slipped  away.  David's  man 
ner  seemed  to  put  her  entirely  outside  of  the  occasion. 

Later  he  joined  her  where  she  waited  in  the  dim  parlor. 
The  still  chilliness  of  the  room  was  stiffening  and  depress 
ing,  but  she  had  not  made  a  fire  because  its  open  cheerful 
ness  would  not  have  seemed  appropriate.  David  walked 
up  and  down  the  long  room  a  few  minutes  in  a  silence 
which  Rachel,  not  knowing  his  mood,  did  not  break. 

Then  he  said,  as  abruptly  as  before,  *  Can  you  have  him 
moved  in  the  morning?' 

'  Moved?  —  Where?' 

Rachel  had  not  supposed  that  her  brother-in-law  would 
have  the  same  feeling  of  incongruity  that  she  had. 

'Anywhere  but  there.  Here  —  I  don't  know  —  there  is 
no  place  in  the  house  that  seems  to  belong  to  him.  The 
hall  might  do  — at  least  he  went  through  there  every  day,' 
he  finished  with  an  irony  none  too  subtle. 

He  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  length  of  the  room, 
alternately  facing  her  with  a  challenging  air,  and  turning 
abruptly  away  again  when  he  had  neared  her  seat.  But 
Rachel,  absorbed  still  in  her  mood,  was  unappreciative  of 
his  manner. 

*  John  never  fitted  into  the  house  very  well,  anywhere,' 
she  said,  with  reserved  regret. 

'Fitted  into  it!'  exclaimed  David,  as  he  turned  toward 
her  at  the  end  of  the  room.  'My  —  Did  the  house  ever 
fit  into  him?  It  is  the  business  of  a  house  to  suit  the 
people  that  live  in  it,'  he  flung  over  his  shoulder  as  he 
wheeled  away  again. 

Rachel  was  silent,  puzzled  at  this  surprising  change  of 
manner  in  David,  and  not  knowing  how  much  of  his  emo 
tion  was  merely  the  impatience  of  grief. 

'Is  there  a  corner  of  the  house  where  it  is  appropriate 


THE  LEGACY  OF  RICHARD   HUGHES          305 

for  him  to  lie  now,  except  that  little  cubby-hole  of  his 
upstairs?'  demanded  David,  continuing,  but  as  one  who 
knows  that  an  answer  is  impossible. 

He  suddenly  abandoned  his  walk  and  came  over  and  sat 
down  opposite  her,  in  front  of  the  empty  fireplace.  He 
sat  silent  a  moment,  his  gray  figure  drooping  in  a  big  chair. 
Rachel,  looking  carefully  at  him  for  the  first  time,  noted 
with  a  kind  of  surprise  the  mark  of  brokenness  and  relaxa 
tion  upon  him,  of  submission  to  tremendous  grief.  It  had 
not  occurred  to  her  that  John  could  be  mourned  in  that 
way.  After  a  moment  he  said  quietly,  'This  house  has 
never  been  a  home  for  John.' 

'I  was  always  hoping,'  said  Rachel,  as  if  this  subject 
were  one  which  they  had  discussed  before  and  agreed  upon, 
'  that  he  would  feel  more  at  home  here  in  time. ' 

'What  would  have  been  necessary  to  bring  that  about?' 
asked  David  quietly. 

'Well,'  said  Rachel,  with  reluctance  in  criticism  even 
greater  than  usual,  '  he  would  have  had  to  change  in  many 
ways. ' 

'In  what  ways?'  persisted  David. 

Rachel  hesitated  again.  The  thing,  when  baldly  said, 
seemed  so  much  harsher  than  when  it  was  merely  held  in 
thought. 

'John's  taste  was  different  from  that  of  the  people  who 
made  the  house,'  she  said. 

'Yes,  I  know.  These  pictures,  and  the  old  books  in  the 
library,  and  so  on.  Is  that  what  you  mean? ' 

'  Well,  the  insides  of  the  books,  and  other  pictures  which 
we  don't  have  —  and  so  on,'  she  finished  indefinitely. 

'Yes.  You  thought  John  was  crude  and  rather  coarse  in 
feeling.' 

'  Oh,  no  —  not  that  indeed ! ' 

'You  would  n't  call  it  just  that,  of  course.    But  the  dif- 


306          THE  LEGACY  OF  RICHARD  HUGHES 

ference  between  you  was  the  same,  whether  it  put  you  up 
high  or  him  down  low.  Is  n't  that  so?  You  were  sorry  for 
yourself  because  John  was  not  on  your  level? ' 

'Yes/  admitted  Rachel,  reluctantly  voicing  the  word. 

*  Were  you  ever  sorry  enough  for  John  because  you  were 
not  on  his  level?  —  There  are  different  kinds  of  lonesome- 
ness,  '  he  added  after  a  pause.  '  I  never  saw  a  worse  case 
than  John's.' 

Rachel  sat  upright,  looking  at  him  in  a  sort  of  amaze 
ment,  as  much  at  himself  as  at  the  idea.  She  had  never 
dreamed  that  behind  his  apparently  sympathetic  observa 
tion  of  her  lay  any  condemnation  of  her  attitude. 

He  met  her  look  with  one  as  direct,  and  asked,  in  a  way 
which  made  the  question  a  sort  of  arraignment,  'Did  it 
ever  occur  to  you  what  a  tragedy  John's  life  was?' 

Rachel  merely  shook  her  head  slowly  as  she  tried  to  con 
nect,  in  an  impersonal  sort  of  way,  the  notion  of  tragedy 
with  John  —  John  the  successful,  the  obstinate,  the  simple 
in  desire,  the  objective.  There  had  been  no  real  disap 
pointment  in  all  his  life.  She  looked  back  half-indignantly 
at  David,  rejecting  the  suggestion. 

David  rose  and  took  a  turn  up  and  down  the  parlor  again, 
pausing  in  the  shadows  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room. 
Then  he  came  back  to  his  seat  and  faced  her  determinedly. 

4  What  /  had  always  hoped  was  that  you  would  come  to 
understand  John  without  any  outside  interference.  I 
came  back  over  and  over  to  see,  but  I  always  kept  from 
butting  in. '  He  paused  again.  '  I  would  n't  say  anything 
now,  only  your  tone,  your  "Poor  John"  way,  shows  you 
are  just  the  same  as  ever.  I  won't  have  him  buried  without 
your  knowing  something  more  about  him  —  if  I  can  show 
you,'  he  added  more  gently. 

4  Please  tell  me, '  said  Rachel  quietly.  Her  mind  was  still 
half  as  much  on  David  as  on  what  he  was  going  to  say. 


THE  LEGACY  OF  RICHARD  HUGHES          307 

*  There  is  nothing  to  tell  that  you  should  not  have  seen 
for  yourself.  You  were  his  wife  and  you  lived  with  him. 
From  the  time  you  came  to  this  house  one  side  of  John's 
life  ended.  In  a  way  he  had  no  home  and  no  —  wife.  A 
man  wants  a  companion.' 

Rachel  almost  spoke,  in  startled  contradiction.  It  was 
she  who  had  been  uncompanioned. 

'You  were  proud,  I  know,  of  never  finding  fault  with 
John.  Don't  you  know  that  he  would  have  been  glad  if 
you  had  openly  found  fault  with  him?  As  it  was,  it  seemed 
as  if  you  thought  him  hopeless.  When  he  said  things 
about  the  house  or  anything  in  it,  he  really  wanted  you  to 
contradict  him  and  argue  with  him,  and  give  him  a  way 
to  come  to  the  same  place  where  you  were — don't  you  see? ' 

'Did  he  tell  you?' 

'No.  But  of  course  I  used  to  sit  round  with  him  a  good 
deal.  And  I  had  always  been  used  to  understanding  him,' 
he  added,  with  a  drop  in  his  voice.  'John  had  a  lot  of 
imagination, '  he  went  on. 

Rachel  looked  up  in  real  surprise. 

'I  could  see  every  year  how  the  house  was  getting  more 
on  his  nerves.  Sometimes  when  he  was  feeling  it  more  than 
usual  he  would  say  little  things  that  I  understood.  For 
him  it  was  like  living  with  some  one  who  did  n't  want  him 
round.  But  he  might  have  liked  it.' 

'You  don't  understand,'  said  Rachel,  as  if  pricked  into 
coming  to  her  own  defense.  'John  did  n't  like  the  way  the 
house  came  to  us  in  the  first  place.  You  did  n't  know  — ' 

'  Yes,  I  did, '  he  responded  as  she  hesitated, '  I  found  out.' 

'And  yet,'  she  went  on,  'we  used  the  house  and  the 
money  — 

'You  haven't  known  much  about  the  business  for 
several  years,  have  you?  Of  course  you  do  know  that  the 
house  has  been  in  your  name  from  the  beginning,  almost. 


308          THE  LEGACY  OF  RICHARD  HUGHES 

But  you  don't  know  that  the  few  thousands  Richard 
Hughes  left  have  been  invested  for  you  ever  since  two 
years  after  he  died.  It  crippled  John  for  a  while  after  he 
took  it  out  of  the  business.  But  he  always  took  good  care 
of  that  money  —  it  amounts  to  quite  a  little  now.' 

'John  didn't  like  it  because  Richard — '  Rachel  hesi 
tated  again. 

*  You  thought  he  was  jealous.  He  did  that  after  one  day 
when  you  weeded  out  a  lot  of  his  books  and  put  them  away 
in  some  corner.  And  it  was  after  he  had  those  New  York 
electric  men  here  that  evening  and  you  seemed  not  to  want 
to  have  them  in  the  library,  that  he  bought  that  corner  of 
ground  over  there  and  made  his  garden.  Don't  you  under 
stand?' 

Rachel  dropped  her  face  upon  her  hands,  partly  for  re 
lief  from  David's  serious  face,  which  forebore  to  rebuke 
her  and  yet  of  necessity  did  so,  partly  to  close  herself  in 
with  her  own  bewilderment.  To  reconstruct  John's  life 
meant  to  take  a  new  view  of  her  own  also. 

David  leaned  suddenly  toward  her.  '  If  John  had  been 
jealous,  would  n't  he  have  had  reason,  Rachel?  I  know 
you  weren't  —  untrue  to  him.  But  still — '  He  felt  the 
formulation  of  the  thought  with  her. 

'I  have  n't  judged  you  harshly,  Rachel, '  he  went  on  in  a 
moment,  'but  it  is  not  right  that  a  man's  brother  should 
know  him  better  than  his  wife  does.  I  had  to  make  you 
know,  even  at  the  last.' 

Then,  as  if  he  were  compelled  to  say  the  final  hard 
thing,  he  added,  'Was  n't  there  something  you  had  already 
thought  you  should  do  when  everything  was  in  your 
hands? ' 

Rachel,  startled  and  flushing,  faced  him  again,  in  in 
voluntary  confession.  'I  had  always  thought  it  would  be 
right  to  carry  out  a  plan  of  Richard  Hughes's.' 


THE  LEGACY  OF  RICHARD  HUGHES          309 

'Yes,  I  know.  I  am  sure  that  was  only  a  momentary 
notion  of  his.  He  had  a  great  habit  of  making  notes  of 
things.  His  will  was  made  only  a  few  days  before  he  died, 
and  that  idea  was  probably  earlier.  I  was  an  executor,  you 
remember.  But  anyway,  several  years  ago  John  made  a 
large  gift  to  the  library  of  Richard's  college,  in  Richard's 
name.  He  took  no  chances  on  being  unfair.  He  should 
have  told  you,'  he  added,  'but  John  had  a  hard  sort  of 
pride  to  manage,  and  I  suppose  he  never  did/ 

'No,'  said  Rachel,  'he  never  did/ 

She  rose,  with  a  sudden  dropping  of  her  hands  at  her 
sides,  as  if  relinquishing  something  they  had  held,  and 
moved  vaguely  toward  the  door. 

'Don't  you  think,'  pursued  David,  'that  he  might  be 
brought  in  here  —  or  somewhere?' 

Rachel  hesitated,  her  hand  faltering  on  the  door-frame. 
'No,'  she  said  at  last,  'let  him  stay  there  now.'  And  she 
herself  went  out  through  the  dim  chill  hall.  She  lingered 
a  moment  at  the  closed  library  door,  and  then  went  slowly 
on  up  to  her  own  empty  room. 


OF  WATER  AND  THE  SPIRIT1 

BY   MAKGARET   PRESCOTT   MONTAGUE 

'I  WANT  to  tell  you  —  I  must  tell  you  all  about  it.' 
With  a  kind  of  grave  finality,  the  little  woman  in  the 
deck  chair  next  to  mine  snapped  together  the  collapsible 
drinking-cup  with  which  she  had  been  playing,  and  sat  up, 
laying  a  small  eager  hand  on  my  arm.  It  wars  as  if  her 
groping  thoughts  had  suddenly  pushed  open  a  door  into 
action.  I  wondered  if  she  guessed  that  I  had  been  peep 
ing  at  her  from  under  dropped  lids.  She  had  the  colorless 
make-up  of  a  small  middle-aged  mouse,  but  her  expression 
was  amazing.  It  startled  and  arrested  one.  All  the  old 
lines  of  the  face  were  set  to  small  ambitions  and  sordid 
desires,  but  the  look  which  should  have,  accompanied  these 
lines  was  clean  gone  —  wiped  into  something  big  and  still 
and  simple  —  and  her  manner  was  that  of  an  earnest  child. 

*  I  was  in  Belgium  v/hen  it  commenced, '  she  began.     '  But 
I  guess  I  better  go  back  and  tell  it  all  right  from  the  begin 
ning/  she  broke  off. 

*  Please  do,'  I  begged. 

I  did  my  best  to  speak  naturally,  but  my  voice  seemed  to 
break  some  spell,  for  her  face  blurred  suddenly  to  self- 
consciousness. 

*I  —  I  reckon  I  ought  to  apologize  for  speaking  to  a 
stranger,'  she  stammered  primly.  And  now  her  words  ex 
actly  matched  all  the  old  small  lines  of  her  face.  It  was  as 
if  her  little  self,  aware  of  something  big  and  overwhelming 
that  threatened  to  sweep  her  out  of  her  depth,  made  a 
desperate  clutch  at  conventionality. 

1  Published  also  in  book  form  and  here  republished  through  the 
courtesy  of  E.  P,  Dutton  &  Co. 


OF  WATER  AND  THE  SPIRIT  311 

'But  I  want  to  hear,'  I  protested  eagerly.  'Please  tell 
ine.' 

She  must  have  seen  that  I  was  in  earnest,  for  the  little 
conventional  self  disappeared  at  that,  and  she  answered 
simply,  *  And  I  want  to  tell  you  —  it  seems  like  I've  just 
got  to  tell  you.' 

It  was  September,  1914.  We  noming  Americans  were 
churning  through  an  extraordinarily  blue  ocean  toward 
New  York  and  peace,  while  back  there,  just  over  our 
shoulders,  a  mad  world  was  running  red. 

'  It  was  like  bein'  torn  all  to  pieces  and  put  together  again 
different,'  she  said.  'But  I'll  go  back  like  I  said,  and  start 
right  from  the  beginning.' 

For  a  moment  she  was  silent,  staring  thoughtfully  down 
at  the  cheap  little  metal  cup,  screwing  the  rings  softly 
round  and  round,  and  drawing,  as  it  were,  inspiration  from 
the  sight  of  it. 

'I  come  from  Johnson's  Falls,'  she  began  at  length. 
'  You  would  n't  know  where  that  is.  It's  just  a  little  place 
down  in  West  Virginia,  but  it's  right  close  to  the  Virginia 
state  line,  and  we  have  some  mighty  nice  people  in  town. 
Why,'  she  exclaimed,  '  I  reckon  we  have  some  of  the  very 
best  blood  in  the  South  there!  But  — but  that  isn't 
what  I  set  out  to  tell  you,'  she  caught  herself  up. 

She  fell  into  such  a  prolonged  silence,  turning  the  little 
cup,  and  looking  at  it,  that  at  last  I  ventured  a  question 
to  start  her  again. 

'And  I  suppose,'  I  said,  'you  belong  to  one  of  the  oldest 
families  there.' 

I  was  sorry  as  soon  as  I  had  said  it. 

'No,  I  don't,'  she  answered  simply,  looking  straight  up 
at  me.  'That  was  how  it  all  commenced.  My  father 
kept  the  livery  stable.  But  of  course  it  would  n't  matter 
—  keepin'  a  livery,  I  mean  —  if  your  family  was  all  right. 


312  OF  WATER  AND  THE  SPIRIT 

Jeff  Randolph  kept  the  grocery.  Being  a  Randolph,  of 
course  he  could.  But  my  name's  Smithson  —  Sadie  Vir 
ginia  Smithson  —  and  my  grandfather  was  a  carpenter. 
I'm  a  dressmaker  myself.  That's  the  reason  they  did  n't 
elect  me  to  the  Laurel  Literary  Society.'  She  paused  a 
moment.  'I  reckon  you  would  n't  understand  about  the 
Laurel  Literary  Society?'  she  questioned  a  trifle  wistfully. 

*  Perhaps  not,'  I  admitted. 

'Well,  it's  a  literary  society,  of  course.  The  members 
read  papers,  and  all  like  that,  but  it's  a  heap  more'n  that. 
Belonging  to  it  kind  of  marks  a  person  out  in  Johnson's 
Falls  and  gives  'em  the  —  the  —  well,  I  reckon  you'd  call 
it  the  entray  to  all  the  best  homes  in  town.  If  you  don't 
belong  —  well,  I  reckon  it  came  kinder  harder  on  me,  not 
belonging,  than  it  did  on  some  of  the  others.  Why,  I'd 
have  said  the  girls  that  started  it  were  my  very  best  friends. 
We'd  played  together  as  children,  and  I  called  'em  all  by 
their  first  names,  and  they  knew  I  was  just  as  smart,  an' 
liked  readin'  an'  all  that  just  as  well  as  any  of  'em  did.  So 
when  I  was  n't  asked  to  join  —  well,  it  just  seemed  to 
knock  me  right  out.  I  was  n't  but  nineteen  then,  an' 
when  you're  young  things  hurt  more,  I  reckon.  Anyhow 
the  slight  of  it  got  just  fixed  in  my  mind,  an'  I  made  a  kind 
of  a  vow  that  I'd  belong  to  that  society  some  day  if  I  died 
for  it.  And  then,  after  a  while  it  came  to  me,  maybe  if  I 
could  just  save  money  enough  to  go  abroad,  they'd  ask  me 
to  read  a  paper  before  the  society  when  I  got  back,  'cause 
mighty  few  people  have  traveled  much  from  our  town.  — 
Well,'  she  looked  thoughtfully  away  at  the  blue  water, 
many  an'  many  a  night  I've  put  myself  to  sleep  thinking 
how  it  would  be  when  I  read  that  paper.  You  know,  when 
you're  young  and  kind  of  unhappy  and  slighted,  how  you 
make  up  things  to  sort  of  comfort  yourself?' 

I  nodded. 


OF  WATER  AND  THE  SPIRIT  313 

'Well,  I  could  just  see  the  whole  thing,  me  standing 
there  reading  an*  all,  and  when  I'd  get  through  I  could  al 
most  hear  the  applause.  They'd  some  of  'em  have  on 
gloves,  you  know,  so  it  would  sound  softer  an'  more  gen- 
teel-like  than  just  common  bare-hand  clapping.  Well,  it 
takes  time  for  a  country  dressmaker  to  save.  It  took  me 
twenty  years!  I  did  have  most  enough  once,  but  then  my 
sister  was  taken  sick  an'  what  I'd  saved  had  to  go  for  her. 
But  I  just  gritted  my  teeth  an'  commenced  again,  and  at 
last  this  spring  I  had  enough,  an'  I  joined  a  party  and 
went.  Ours  was  n't  a  regular  party.  It  was  just  a  pro 
fessor  an'  his  wife  who  were  goin'  anyhow,  an'  would  take 
a  couple  of  ladies  with  them,  so  there  were  just  the  four  of 
us.  Well,  we  traveled  for  a  month  or  more,  an'  you  better 
b'lieve  I  stretched  my  eyes  to  see  all  there  was  to  see.  An' 
then,  all  at  once,  the  world  just  tipped  itself  right  over  an' 
went  crazy. 

*  We  were  in  Brussels  when  it  came.  The  professor  was 
sure  everything  would  quiet  down  in  a  little  bit,  an*  he 
said  we'd  better  stay  right  there.  And  anyhow,  it  was  n't 
easy  to  get  away.  It  was  all  just  awful,  with  one  country 
after  another  slipping  in.  Only  things  came  so  quick  a 
person  did  n't  hardly  have  time  to  catch  their  breath  an' 
think  "how  awful,"  'fore  something  worse  was  jumping 
right  on  top  of  it.  Well,  wTe  stayed  and  stayed,  till  at  last 
the  Germans  came.  It  certainly  was  a  sight  to  see  'em  — 
but  I  ain't  goin'  to  tell  about  that,  I'm  just  goin'  to  skip 
right  along  to  what  I  set  out  to  tell. 

'The  professor  and  his  wife  had  left  their  only  child,  a 
mighty  sickly  little  thing,  with  her  grandmother  in  Paris, 
and  when  things  got  so  bad  they  were  pretty  near  distracted 
to  get  to  her.  Well,  one  morning  the  professor  came  in  and 
told  us  he'd  run  across  a  young  American,  a  Mr.  Grenville, 
who  was  being  sent  to  Paris  on  some  special  diplomatic 


314  OF  WATER  AND  THE  SPIRIT 

business.  He  had  a  big  automobile,  and  he  thought  maybe 
he  could  get  it  fixed  to  take  us  all,  too.  It  looked  like  a 
mighty  crazy  thing  to  do,  but  there  was  n't  any  holdin' 
the  professor  an'  his  wife  on  account  of  their  child,  and  me 
and  the  other  lady,  we  was  afraid  to  be  left  behind.  Well, 
after  a  lot  of  runnin'  around  from  one  official  to  another, 
they  did  finally  get  it  all  fixed  for  us  to  go,  an'  the  next 
day  we  started  out  with  an  American  flag  on  the  front  of 
our  car.  Of  course  we  were  stopped  a  lot  of  times  and  all 
our  papers  gone  through  and  everything,  but  each  time 
they  let  us  go  on  account  of  Mr.  Grenville  bein'  a 'United 
States  official.  We'd  started  early,  an'  by  noon  we'd 
come  a  right  smart  piece,  an'  about  that  time  we  began 
to  hear  firing  on  in  front.  Did  you  ever  hear  them  big 
guns?'  she  broke  oft7  to  ask,  her  childlike  eyes  question 
ing  me. 

I  shook  my  head. 

'Well,  you  needn't  never  want  to  hear  'em/  she  said. 
'When  they  commenced  we  all  kind  of  looked  at  one  an 
other,  an'  I  reckon  we  was  all  scared.  Anyhow,  I  know  / 
was.  Why,  at  home  I'm  'fraid  of  a  thunderstorm.  But 
still  we  kept  on.  The  sound  of  the  firin'  got  louder  an' 
louder,  but  it  was  never  very  close,  and  along  late  in  the 
afternoon  it  sort  of  died  off,  an'  we  commenced  to  draw 
breath  again,  and  think  everything  was  goin'  to  be  all 
right.  I'm  'most  sure  now  we  must  have  missed  the  way, 
for  just  about  that  time  we  ran  upon  a  piece  of  road  that 
was  all  tore  up.  There  were  big  holes  in  it  from  the  shells, 
an'  those  tall  poplars  alongside  were  all  snapped  off,  an* 
their  branches  stripped  down  like  a  child  peels  a  switch. 
You  could  smell  the  fresh  sap  like  you  can  in  lumber  camps 
at  home.  Well,  we  had  to  slow  up  an'  kind  of  pick  our 
way,  and  on  round  the  very  next  turn  we  ran  right  up  on 
them.' 


OF  WATER  AND  THE  SPIRIT  315 

'On  the  fighting!'  I  gasped. 

'No — no;  the  fightin'  was  all  over  then.  Just  for  a 
flash,  comin'  on  'em  so  quick  like,  I  did  n't  know  what  they 
were.  They  looked  like  little  sprawled  brown  heaps. 
But  in  the  second  I  was  wonderin',  one  of  'em  flung  up  an 
arm  and  groaned,' 

'How  awful!'  I  cried  aghast. 

'Yes,'  she  assented  simply, ' it  certainly  was  awful.  My 
words  ain't  big  enough  to  tell  you  how  awful.  Runnin' 
up  on  'em  so  unexpected  like  that,  kind  of  cut  my  breath 
right  off  an'  choked  me.  There  \they  were,  layin'  all 
about  acrost  the  road,  an'  in  a  wheat-field  alongside,  with 
the  sun  just  shining  down  like  it  was  any  kind  of  a  summer 
day*  A  good  many  of  'em  were  dead,  but  there  were  a 
plenty  that  were  n't.  They  blocked  the  road  so  we  had 
to  stop,  an'  right  where  we  stopped  there  was  a  young  man 
layin'  flung  over  on  his  back.  He'd  snatched  his  shirt 
open  at  the  breast,  an'  the  blood  had  all  dripped  down  into 
the  dust  of  the  road.  He  opened  his  eyes,  an'  stared  right 
up  in  my  face,  an'  cried,  "Water,  for  God's  sake!"  He 
said  it  over  an'  over  in  the  awfullest  voice,  an'  like  it 
was  one  word  —  "  Water-for-God's-sake,  water-for-God's- 
sake" —  like  that.  I  had  this  little  drinkin'  cup,  an' 
there  was  a  good-sized  creek  just  a  piece  across  the  field,  so 
I  grabbed  my  hand-bag  an'  jumped  out.  Well,  at  that 
all  of  'em  in  the  car  commenced  to  holler  an'  scream  at  me 
to  get  back,  that  we  could  n't  stop  —  it  would  n't  be  safe 
—  an'  we  could  n't  do  anything,  an'  anyhow  the  stretcher- 
bearers  would  be  along  d'rectly.  But  I  just  said,  "He 
wants  water,  an'  I've  got  my  cup  here,,  an'  there's  the 
branch,  an'  anyhow,"  I  says,  "he  looks  kind  of  like  my 
sister's  oldest  boy,"  an'  with  that  I  started  on  to  the  creek. 

'Well,  the  professor  an'  Mr.  Grenville  jumped  out  of  the 
car  an'  came  runnin'  after  me,  but  J  just  turned  'round 


316  OF  WATER  AND  THE  SPIRIT 

an' looked  at 'em.  "You  all  goon,"  I  says.  "He  asked  me 
for  water  for  God's  sake,  an'  if  you  try  to  put  me  back  in 
that  car  I'll  fight  you  like  a  wildcat."  I  never  did  any 
thing  like  that,  —  fightin',  I  mean, '  — -  she  broke  off  to 
explain  earnestly,  'but  I  would  have,  an'  I  reckon  they 
knew  it.  The  professor  tried  to  argue.  "You'll  be  a  rav 
ing  maniac  if  you  stay  here,"  he  says.  "Well,"  I  says, 
"look  what's  here  now  —  what  difference  does  it  make 
if  I  am?"  Somehow  that  was  the  way  I  felt.  Every 
thing  was  so  awful  it  did  n't  seem  to  matter  whether  any 
thing  awful  happened  to  me  or  not.  So  I  just  kept  on  to 
the  creek,  and  Mr.  Grenville  said,  "For  Heaven's  sake, 
let  her  stay  if  she  can  do  anything.  I  wish  to  God  I  could 
stay  too."  But  he  could  n't,  he  was  carryin'  some  mighty 
important  dispatches  that  he  just  had  to  get  on  with.  An' 
then  he  calls  out  to  me,  "Good  luck  and  God  bless  you, 
Miss  Smithson ! "  An'  when  I  looked  back  he  was  standin' 
with  his  hat  off.  He  was  a  mighty  nice  young  man.  But 
all  the  time  the  other  ladies  in  the  car  was  screamin'  an* 
hollerin'  for  them  to  come  on,  so  they  had  to  go.' 

'  They  left  you  all  alone ! '  I  cried. 

'They  had  to,'  she  returned.  ' Mr.  Grenville  had  to  get 
on  with  his  dispatches,  an'  it  was  the  last  chance  the  pro 
fessor  an'  his  wife  had  of  gettin'  through  to  their  child.  An' 
the  other  lady  —  Well,  she  could  n't  do  nothin'  but  scream 
anyhow.  By  the  time  I  was  comin '  back  from  the  creek 
the  car  was  just  pullin'  out  of  sight.  Somehow,  to  see  it 
go  like  that  gave  me  a  kind  of  funny  feelin'.  I  was  scared, 
I  reckon,  but  all  the  same  I  felt  kind  of  still  too.  It  seemed 
like  for  the  last  few  weeks  I'd  been  hustled  along  in  a  wild 
kind  of  a  torrent,  but  now  I'd  touched  bottom  an'  got  my 
feet  under  me.  I  reckon  a  woman  does  touch  bottom 
when  there's  anything  she  can  do  —  anyhow,  one  raised 
to  work  like  I've  been  does.  But,  oh,  my  Lord ! '  she  cried 


OF  WATER  AND  THE  SPIRIT  317 

suddenly,  dropping  her  face  to  her  hands,  'I  wish  I  could 
keep  from  seein'  it  all  still  —  an'  hearin'  it  too!  Did  you 
ever  hear  a  man  scream? '  she  demanded.  '  Not  just  groan, 
but  shriek,  an'  scream?' 

' In  hospitals,'  I  said,  uncertainly,  'I've  heard  people 
screaming  when  they  were  coming  out  of  ether.' 

She  shook  her  head.  'That's  different.  You  knew 
there  wrere  people,  nurses  and  doctors,  to  do  things  for 
'em;  but  out  there  there  was  n't  anything  but  the  trampled 
wheat,  an'  the  big  empty  sky.  There  was  plenty  of  'em 
who  wanted  water,  an'  begged  an'  cried  for  it;  but  I  just 
said,  "I'll  be  back  to  you  all  presently,"  an'  went  on  to  the 
first  one.  He  was  kind  of  delirious,  but  he  could  drink  the 
water,  an'  was  mighty  glad  to  get  it.  I  brushed  the  flies 
all  away,  an'  spread  a  clean  handkerchief  over  his  wound, 

—  he  was  too  far  gone  to  try  an'  do  anything  else  for  him, 

—  an'  went  on  back  to  the  creek.     Water,  that  was  the 
main  thing  they  wanted.     The  most  of  'em  that  could  be 
were  bandaged  already.     Some  of  the  medical  outfit  had 
been  around  an'  got  'em  tied  up,  but  after  that,  I  reckon 
the  fightin'  must  of  changed  an'  cut  'em  off  from  their 
friends,  for  the  stretcher-bearers  did  n't  come,  an'  did  n't 
come. 

'It  was  all  so  strange  an'  kind  of  shut  away  there,  like 
destruction  had  lit  for  a  spell  an'  then  flown  on  to  the  next 
place.  The  wheat  was  all  laid  over  an'  tramped,  and 
lumpy  with  khaki  bodies,  an'  with  caps  an'  guns  an'  things 
flung  around  in  it,  an'  the  red  sun  sailin'  down  an'  down 
in  the  West,  an'  every  here  an'  there  awful  splatters  of 
blood  in  the  wheat.  But  I  did  n't  have  time  to  look  an' 
think  too  much  —  an'  it  was  mighty  lucky  I  did  n't  have. 
They  were  all  English  an'  had  run  upon  a  German  battery 
an'  been  shot  to  pieces  'fore  they  hardly  knew  what  was 
happenin.'  I  guess  some  of  'em  must  have  got  away,  but 


318  OF  WATER  AND  THE  SPIRIT 

there  was  a  plenty  that  did  n't.  They'd  been  layin'  there 
since  dawn,  an'  —  an'  they  were  hungry  —  '  her  voice 
broke.  'An'  I  didn't  have  anything  to  give  'em,'  she 
whispered. 

'They  say  after  a  while  you  get  kind  of  numb  to  things,' 
she  went  on  presently,  with  her  grave  simplicity.  *  I  don't 
know  how  that  is,  but  I  know  the  things  I  saw  made  me 
stop  every  now  an'  then  down  by  the  creek  out  of  sight,  an' 
just  wring  an'  wring  my  hands  together  in  a  kind  of  rage 
of  pity.  Once,  goin'  through  the  wheat,  I  tramped  on 
something  soft,  an'  when  I  looked,  it  was  —  it  was  just  a 
piece  of  a  man.  I  thought  I'd  lay  right  down  then  an' 
die,  but  I  says  to  myself,  "They  want  water,  they  want 
water"  -  an'  that  way  I  kind  of  drove  myself  on.  But 
all  the  time  I  could  see  my  heart  under  my  waist  just 
jumpin'  up  an'  down,  like  it  was  fightin'  to  jump  out  an' 
runaway.  An' then  another  time — '  But  she  broke  off. 
'No,'  she  said,  'I  won't  tell  about  that.  It's  so  peaceful 
here  with  that  blue  water  an'  sunshine  an'  all,  I  reckon  I 
ought  n't  to  tell  what  it's  like  underneath  when  Hell  takes 
the  lid  off.  An'  maybe  some  day  the  Lord'll  let  me  forget. 

'But  it's  funny,'  she  went  on  again  presently,  'how  your 
mind  grabs  ahold  of  any  foolish  thing  to  steady  you.'  She 
paused,  staring  down  at  the  little  cup  as  though  she  drew 
remembrance  from  it.  'I  recollect  as  I  went  back  and 
forth,  back  and  forth,  weaving  out  paths  through  the 
wheat,  a  silly  song  that  we  used  to  sing  to  a  game  at  school 
kept  runnin'  in  my  head: — 

I  don't  want  none  of  your  weevily  wheat, 
An'  I  don't  want  none  of  your  barley; 
An'  I  don't  want  none  of  your  weevily  wheat 
To  bake  a  cake  for  Charley. 

'I  was  mighty  glad  it  did.  For  all  it  was  so  silly,  it  kept 
me  from  flyin'  right  off  the  handle.  An'  so  I  kept  on  an' 


OF  WATER  AND  THE  SPIRIT  319 

on,  carryin'  'em  water.  Some  of  the  men  thought  it  was 
funny  I  should  be  there,  an'  they  wanted  to  talk  an'  ask 
me  questions;  but  the  most  of  'em  were  sufferin'  too  bad  to 
care,  an'  some  of  'em  were  busy  goin'  along  into  the  next 
world,  an'  were  done  with  bein'  surprised  over  anything  in 
this.  Most  of  'em  called  me  "Nurse"  or  "Sister,"  an' 
some  way  I  liked  to  have  'em  do  it.  Some  of  'em  certainly 
were  brave,  too.  Why,  I  saw  one  young  fella  jump  straight 
up  to  his  feet  an'  fling  his  arms  out  wide,  an'  holler  right  up 
at  the  sky,  "Are  we  downhearted?  —  No!"  an'  pitch  over 
dead.  You  know,'  she  paused  to  explain  simply,  her  ex 
traordinarily  childlike  eyes  lifted  to  mine  for  understand 
ing  and  sympathy,  'it  just  seems  to  snatch  the  heart  right 
out  of  you  to  see  a  person  stand  up  to  death  like  that  — 
'specially  when  they're  so  young,  like  that  little  fella. ' 

'Of  course,'  she  went  on  after  a  moment,  'I  did  n't  just 
give  'em  water.  I'd  do  any  other  little  thing  I  could  be 
sides.  An'  every  time  I  could  do  anything,  I  certainly  was 
glad.  Doing  things  seemed  to  ease  up  a  little  that  terrible 
rage  of  pity  I  felt.  I  took  my  skirt  off  an  'rolled  it  up  for 
a  pillow  for  a  little  fella  who  could  n't  move  an'  was  layin' 
with  his  head  in  a  kind  of  a  sink-hole.  He  tried  to  thank 
me  but  he  could  n't,  —  he  just  sobbed,  —  but  he  caught 
ahold  of  my  hand  an'  kissed  it.  That  made  me  cry.  It 
was  so  sort  of  young  an'  pretty  of  him.  After  that  I  went 
on  for  a  spell  with  the  tears  just  pourin'  down  my  cheeks. 
But  presently  I  found  the  one  who  couldn't  drink  the 
water,  an'  I  quit  cryin'  then.  My  tears  weren't  big 
enough;  only  God's  would  have  been  big  enough  for  that. 

'The  man's  face  was  all  gone,  —  eyes,  mouth,  every 
thing,  —  an'  still  he  was  alive.  He  must  have  heard  me 
an'  known  somebody  was  there,  for  he  commenced  to 
scream  an'  moan,  tryin'  to  say  things  down  in  his  throat, 
an'  to  reach  out  his  hands  an'  flop  about  —  O  my  God!  It 


320  OF  WATER  AND  THE  SPIRIT 

was  like  a  chicken  with  its  head  off!  I  thought  I'd  have 
to  run.  But  I  did  n't.  I  just  sort  of  fell  down  beside  him, 
an'  caught  ahold  of  his  hands,  an'  patted  them  an'  talked 
to  him  like  you  do  to  a  child  in  a  nightmare.  I  don't 
know  what  I  said  at  first.  Just  a  crazy  jumble  of  pity,  I 
reckon;  but  after  a  little  bit  I  found  I  was  prayin'.  I 
know  /  needed  it,  an'  it  seemed  to  help  him  too,  for  after  a 
little  bit,  he  stopped  that  awful  tryin'  to  speak  down  in  his 
throat,  an'  lay  still  just  grippin'  my  hands.  I  was  so 
crazy  I  couldn't  think  of  a  thing  to  say  but  "God  bless  us 
an'  keep  us  an'  make  his  face  to  shine  upon  us  an'  be  merci 
ful  unto  us. "  An'  I  just  said  that  over  an'  over. 

*I  guess  it  was  n't  the  words  that  he  wanted,  it  was  the 
feelin'  of  havin'  God  there  in  all  that  awful  dark  and  blood, 
an'  some  human  bein'  beside  him  who  was  sorry.  Anyhow, 
every  time  I'd  stop  he'd  snatch  at  my  wrists  so  hard  it 
would  hurt;  look.'  She  broke  off  to  push  up  her  gray 
sleeve,  and  there  on  her  thin  wrist,  still  vividly  black  and 
blue,  were  the  bruised  prints  of  fingers.  'But  I  was  glad 
to  be  hurt  —  I  wanted  to  be  hurt.  I  wanted  to  have  a 
share  in  all  the  sufferin'.  It  just  seemed  like  my  heart 
would  break.  An','  she  added  with  great  simplicity,  'I 
reckon  that's  just  what  it  did  do,  for  I  know  I  broke 
through  into  something  bigger  than  I  ever  had  been. 

'Well,  after  a  while,  God  did  have  mercy  on  that  poor 
soul,  for  he  quit  pullin'  at  my  hands,  and  began  to  die,  an' 
when  I  came  'round  again  to  him  he  was  gone.  But  that 
got  me  started,  an'  I  left  off  sayin'  that  foolishness  about 
the  weevily  wheat,  an'  said  the  little  prayer  instead.  I 
said  it  to  myself  first,  but  after  a  little  bit,  I  found  I  was 
sayin'  it  out  loud.  I  don't  know  why,  but  it  seemed  like 
I  had  to  say  it  every  time  I  gave  one  of  'em  water.  Just 
"  God  bless  us  an'  keep  us  an'  make  his  face  to  shine  upon 
us  and  be  merciful  unto  us."  It  was  somehow  like  a  child's 


OF  WATER  AND  THE  SPIRIT  321 

game  —  like  havin'  to  touch  every  tree-box  goin'  along 
the  street,  or  steppin'  over  every  crack.  Each  one  of  'em 
had  to  have  the  water  an'  the  little  prayer,  an'  then  on  to 
the  next,  or  back  down  to  the  creek  for  more.  Most  of 
'em  did  n't  seem  to  notice,  but  some  of  'em  laughed,  an' 
some  stared  like  I  was  crazy,  —  an'  maybe  I  was  a  little,  — 
an'  again  some  of  'em  were  glad  of  it. 

'So  I  kep'  on  an'  on,  an'  the  sun  went  down,  an'  the 
dark  came,  an'  it  seemed  like  a  kind  of  a  lid  had  shut  us 
away  from  all  the  world.  It  was  n't  right  dark,  for  the 
stars  were  shinin'.  It  was  about  that  time  that  I  found 
the  little  officer.  He  was  dyin',  off  in  the  wheat  all  to  him 
self,  an'  he  got  me  to  take  down  some  messages  for  his  folks. 
I  wrote  'em  in  my  diary.  I  had  a  pocket  flashlight  in  my 
bag,  an'  it  made  a  round  eye  of  light  that  stared  out  at 
every  word  I  wrote.  They  were  the  simplest  kind  of  words. 
Just  love,  love  to  mother,  and  love  to  father,  and  Snippy 
and  Peg,  an'  good-bye  to  'em  all,  an'  how  he  was  glad  to 
die  for  England.  But  they  look  mighty  strange  jumpin' 
out  there  in  my  diary  alongside  of  travel  notes  about  Brus 
sels.  It's  like  something  big  an'  terrible  had  smashed  its 
fist  right  through  all  the  little  fancy  things. 

''But  it  was  funny,'  she  went  on  after  a  minute,  'how 
sort  of  like  children  so  many  of  the  men  were,  so  trusting 
an'  helpless.  There  was  one  little  fella  always  said  the 
same  thing  to  me  every  time  I  came  'round.  "They'll 
sure  be  around  for  us  soon  now,  won't  they,  sister?"  he'd 
say.  An'  I'd  always  answer,  "Oh,  yes,  just  in  a  little  bit 
now."  An'  he'd  settle  back  again,  so  trusting  an'  satisfied, 
an'  like  I  really  knew.  That  was  the  way  they  all  seemed 
to  me  —  just  children.  Even  the  ones  that  cursed  an' 
screamed  at  me.  An'  another  funny  thing,'  she  added 
lifting  her  grave  child's  eyes  to  mine:  'I've  never  been 
married  —  never  known  what  it  was  to  have  children 


322  OF  WATER  AND  THE  SPIRIT 

—  but  that  night  all  those  men  were  my  children,  even 
the  biggest  an'  roughest  of  'em.     I  felt  'em  all  here '  —    She 
held  her  hands  tight  against  her  breast.     'An'  I  b'lieve 
I  would  have  died  for  any  one  of  'em.     I  reckon  bein'  so 
crazy  with  pity  had  stretched  me  up  out  of  bein'  a  scary 
old  maid  into  bein'  a  mother. 

*I  recollect  there  was  two  loose  horses  gallopin'  about. 
They  were  wild  with  fear,  an'  they'd  gallop  as  hard  as 
ever  they  could  in  one  direction,  an'  then  they'd  wheel 
'round  an'  come  to  a  stand  with  their  heads  up,  an'  their 
tails  cocked,  an'  nicker,  an'  snort  over  what  they  smelt,  an' 
then  take  out  again.  Well,  once  they  came  chargin'  right 
down  on  us,  an'  I  thought  sure  they  were  goin'  right  over 
the  men.  I  never  stopped  to  think:  I  ran  straight  out  in 
front  of  'em  wavin'  my  arms  an'  hoflefin'.  They  just 
missed  gallopin'  right  over  me.  But  I  did  n't  care;  I  b'lieve 
I'd  almost  have  been  glad.  It  was  like  I  said  —  I  wanted 
to  be  hurt  too.  That  was  because  it  was  all  so  lonesome 
for  'em.  Death  an'  sufferin'  is  a  lonesome  thing,'  she 
stated  gravely.  *  When  they'd  scream,  I  felt  like  I'd  tear 
my  heart  out  to  help  'em.  But  all  I  could  do  was  just  to 
stand  on  the  outside  like,  an'  watch  'em  sufferin'  an'  maybe 
dryin'  inside  there  all  alone.  That's  why  it  seemed  like 
bein'  hurt  too  would  make  it  easier. 

*  Well,  along  late  in  the  night,  the  guns  broke  out  again 
awful  loud,  an'  presently  off  against  the  sky  I  saw  red 
streaks  of  flame  go  up  in  two  places,  an'  I  knew  they  were 
towns  on  fire.  I  just  stopped  still  an'  looked,  an'  thought 
what  it  was  like  with  the  folks  scurryin'  'round  like  rats,  an* 
the  fire  an'  the  shells  rainin'  down  on  'em.  "That's  Hell 

—  right  over  there,"  I  says  out  loud  to  myself,  an'  then  I 
went  on  down  to  the  creek  faster  than  ever.     Maybe  I 
was  gettin'  kind  of  lightheaded  then,  an'  God  knows  it  was 
enough  to  make  anybody  so;  anyhow,  I  felt  like  I  had  to 


OF  WATER  AND  THE  SPIRIT  323 

hold  Hell  back.  It  was  loose  right  over  there,  an'  the  only 
thing  that  held  it  off  was  the  cup  of  water  an'  the  little 
prayer.  So  I  kept  on  back  an'  forth,  back  an*  forth  from 
the  creek,  faster  an'  faster.  I  thought  if  I  missed  one  of 
'em  it  would  let  Hell  in  on  all  the  rest,  so  I  kept  on  an'  on. 
The  guns  were  boomin',  an'  the  flames  goin'  up  into  the 
sky,  an'  all  Hell  was  loose,  but  the  little  prayer  an'  the  cup 
of  water  was  holdin'  it  back.  An'  then  at  last,  when  it 
commenced  to  freshen  for  dawn,  I  knew  I'd  won. ' 

She  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  paused,  looking  up  at  me 
with  clear,  far-away  eyes. 

'That  was  because  I  knew  He  was  there,'  she  said. 

'He?9 1  questioned,  awestruck  by  her  tone. 

She  nodded.  'Yes,  God,'  she  answered  simply.  'An* 
after  that,  that  terrible  lonesomeness  melted  all  away.  I 
knew  that  though  I  had  to  stand  outside  an'  see  'em  suffer, 
He  was  inside  there  with  'em  —  closer  to  'em  even  than 
they  was  to  themselves.  So  I  knew  it  was  n't  really  lone 
some  for  'em,  even  if  they  were  suff erin'  an'  dy in ' .  An'  I'm 
right  sure  that  a  good  many  of  'em  got  to  know  that,  too  — 
anyhow,  the  faces  of  some  of  the  ones  that  had  died  looked 
that  way  when  I  saw  'em  in  the  mornin'.  Maybe  it  was 
because  I  cared  so  much  myself  that  I  kind  of  broke 
through  into  knowin'  how  much  more  God  cared.  Folks 
always  talk  like  He  was  a  father  'way  off  in  the  sky,  but 
I  got  to  know  that  night  that  what  was  really  God  was 
something  big  an'  close  right  in  your  own  heart,  that  was  a 
heap  more  like  a  big  mother. 

'An'  it  was  all  bigger  an'  sort  of  simpler  than  I'd  ever 
thought  it  would  be.  Right  over  there  was  Hell  an'  big 
guns,  an'  men  killin'  each  other,  but  here  where  we  were, 
were  just  stars  overhead,  an'  folks  that  you  could  do  things 
for,  an'  God.  I  reckon  that's  the  way,'  she  said  with  her 
grave  simplicity,  'when  things  get  too  awful  you  suffer 


324  OF  WATER  AND  THE  SPIRIT 

through  to  God,  an'  He  turns  you  back  to  the  simplest 
things  —  just  the  little  prayer,  an'  the  cup  of  water  for  men 
that  were  like  sick  children.  This  is  the  cup,'  she  added, 
holding  it  out  for  my  inspection.  'An' —  an'  that's  all, 
I  reckon,'  she  concluded.  'When  daylight  came,  the 
stretcher-bearers  did  get  through  to  us.  There  was  a 
sort  of  doctor  officer  with  them,  an'  I  never  in  my  life  saw 
any  one  look  so  tired. 

"  Who  are  you,  an'  what  in  thunder  are  you  doing  here?" 
he  stormed  out  at  me  —  only  I  don't  say  it  as  strong  as 
he  did. 

*  I  reckon  I  must  have  looked  like  a  wild  woman.  I  had 
lost  my  hat  and  my  hair  was  all  falling  down,  an'  I  only 
had  on  my  short  alpaca  underskirt,  'cause  I'd  taken  off  my 
dress  skirt  to  make  a  pillow  like  I  said;  but  I  just  stood 
right  up  in  the  midst  of  all  those  poor  bodies,  an'  says, 
"I'm  Miss  Smithson  —  Sadie  Virginia  Smithson —  an* 
I've  been  holdin'  Hell  back  all  night." 

'I  knew  I  was  talkin'  crazy  but  I  did  n't  care  —  like  the 
way  you  do  comin'  out  of  ether. 

'He  stared  at  me  for  a  spell,  an'  then  he  says,  kind  of 
funny,  "  Well,  Miss  Sadie  Virginia,  I'm  glad  you  held  some 
of  it  back,  for  everybody  else  in  the  world  was  letting  it 
loose  last  night." 

'He  was  mighty  kind  to  me,  though,  an'  helped  get  me 
to  one  of  the  base  hospitals,  an'  from  there  over  to  England. 
But  I  don't  know  what  happened  to  the  professor  an'  his 
party.' 

'Well,'  I  ventured  after  a  long  pause,  and  not  knowing 
quite  what  to  say,  'the  Laurel  Literary  Society  will  be 
glad  enough  to  have  you  belong  to  it  now.' 

She  flashed  bolt  upright  at  that,  her  eyes  staring  at  me. 

'But  —  but  you  don't  understand,'  she  cried  breath 
lessly.  '  I've  been  face  to  face  with  war  an'  death  an'  Hell 


OF  WATER  AND  THE  SPIRIT  325 

an'  God,  —  I've  been  born  again,  —  do  you  reckon  any  of 
them  little  old  things  matter  now?' 

I  was  stunned  by  the  white  look  of  her  face. 

'What  does  matter  —  now?'  I  whispered  at  last. 

'Nothin','  she  answered,  'nothin'  but  God  an'  love  an' 
doin'  things  for  folks.  That  was  why  I  had  to  tell  you.' 


MR.   SQUEM 

BY   ARTHUR   RUSSELL   TAYLOR 

'WHY  do  we  go  on  perpetuating  an  uncomfortable 
breed?' 

The  man  who  was  shaving  at  the  mirror-paneled  door 
of  the  Pullman  smoking  compartment  looked  at  his  ques 
tioner  on  the  leather  seat  opposite. 

'  Give  it  up,'  he  answered.     '  Why  is  a  hen? ' 

The  first  man  rapped  his  pipe  empty  on  the  edge  of  a 
cuspidor. 

'You  answer  the  question/  he  said,  'in  the  only  possible 
way  —  by  asking  another.' 

'Right,'  answered  the  shaver;  and  began  to  run  the  hot 
water. 

A  closely  built  man,  in  a  suit  so  heavily  striped  as  to 
seem  stripes  before  it  was  a  suit,  lurched  into  the  compart 
ment  and  settled  himself  to  his  paper  and  cigar. 

'That  monkey-on-a-stick, '  he  presently  broke  out,  'is 
still  taking  good  money  away  from  the  asses  who  go  to 
hear  him  rant  about  God  and  Hell  and  all  the  rest,  up  in 
Boston.  I  am  so  damn  tired  of  him,  and  of  that  rich 
rough-neck'  Freeze.  It's  the  limit.' 

'Pretty  much,'  said  the  man  with  the  pipe.  'I  was 
reading  about  the  Belgians  just  before  you  came  in,  and 
when  I  jumped  away  from  them  I  lit  on  some  things  about 
Poland.  Then  I  wondered  aloud  to  this  gentleman  why 
we  go  on  multiplying  —  increasing  such  an  uncomfortable 
breed.  Modoc  gods  and  degenerate  millionaires  make  one 
wonder  more.' 


MR.   SQUEM  327 

'What  is  your  line,  may  I  ask?'  inquired  the  stripe- 
suited  man. 

*  Religion/ 

4  The  hell  —  I  beg  your  pardon.  If  you  mean  that  you're 
a  preacher  or  something  like  that,  all  I've  got  to  say  is, 
you're  a  funny  one.  It's  your  job,  is  n't  it,  to  be  dead 
sure  that  everything's  all  right,  or  somehow  going  to  be 
all  right  —  no  matter  about  all  the  mussed-upness?  Yes, 
that's  certainly  your  job.  Yet  here  you  are,  asking  why 
we  go  on  stocking  the  world  with  kids.  /  might  ask  that, 
—  I'm  in  rubber  tires,  —  but  not  you.  Yes,  I  might  — 
only  I  do  n't.' 

The  man  who  had  been  shaving  had  resumed  his  tie, 
collar,  and  coat,  and  ( how  lighted  a  cigarette. 

'I  lay  my  money,'  he  said,  'on  one  thing:  that,  if  men 
let  themselves  go,  they  wind  up  shortly  with  God  —  or 
with  what  would  be  God  if  there  were  any.  You've  come 
to  it  early  —  through  the  Ledger.  You'd  have  got  to  it 
sooner  or  later,  though,  if  you'd  been  talking  about  hunt 
ing-dogs—provided  you'd  have  let  yourselves  go.' 

'Well,  now,'  asked  the  closely  built  man,  'what  is  your 
line?' 

'Education.' 

'High-brow  company!  Seems  to  me  the  pair  of  you 
ought  to  be  silencers  for  a  plain  business  man  like  me. 
Rubber  is  my  line  —  not  how  the  world  is  run.  My  opin 
ion  on  that  is  small  change,  sure.  Yet  I  think  it  ought  to 
be  run,  —  the  world,  I  mean,  —  even  if  it's  mussed-up  to 
the  limit,  and  I  think  it's  up  to  us  to  keep  it  running.  The 
parson  here  —  if  he  is  a  parson  —  asks  why  we  should; 
that  is,  if  I  get  him.  And  then  I  think  there's  a  manager 
of  it  all  in  the  central  office  —  a  manager,  understand, 
though  he  never  seems  to  show  up  around  the  works,  and 
certainly  does  seem  to  have  some  of  the  darnedest  ways. 


328  MR.   SQUEM 

The  professor  here  —  if  he  is  a  professor  —  does  n't  sense 
any  manager;  that  is,  if  I  get  him  straight,  with  his  "if 
there  were  any."  That  was  what  you  said,  wasn't  it? 
I'm  a  picked  chicken  on  religion  and  education,  but,  hon 
est,  both  those  ideas  would  mean  soft  tires  for  me  —  yes, 
sir,  soft  tires.' 

*  Broad  Street,  gentlemen, '  said  the  porter  at  the  door. 

The  Reverend  Allan  Dare  walked  away  from  the  train 
and  down  the  street.  He  was  Episcopally  faced  and  Epis- 
copally  trim,  and  he  was  having  considerable  difficulty  in 
holding  his  universe  together.  This  is  not  pleasant  at 
forty-two,  when  you  want  your  universe  held  together 
and  things  settled  and  calm.  He  had  an  uncomfortable 
sense  that  this  difficulty  had  jolted  into  plain  sight  on  the 
car. 

'Ass!'  he  addressed  himself  briefly.  'To  let  your  sag 
and  unsettlement  loose  in  that  way !  To  say  such  a  thing 
as  you  said,  and  in  such  a  place!  To  parade  your  mo 
mentary  distrust  of  life !  Ass  —  oh,  ass ! ' 

He  said  —  or  thought  —  a  Prayer-Book  collect,  one 
which  seemed  rather  suited  to  asses,  and  continued,  - 

'I  suppose  I'm  three-tenths  sag  —  no  more;  and  "He 
knoweth  whereof  we  are  made,"  and  what  a  devil  of  a 
world  it  is  to  be  in  just  now.  But  that  rubber  man  on  the 
car  —  he  isn't  sag  at  all.  Heavens,  his  crudeness!  His 
beastly  clothes,  and  the  bare  shaved  welt  around  the  back 
of  his  neck,  and  that -awful  seal  ring!  But  he's  fastened. 
Life  is  worth  pushing  at  and  cheering  for  —  and  there's  a 
manager,  if  he  has  "the  darnedest  ways."  I'd  give  some 
thing  for  an  every-minute  mood  like  that  —  a  carrying 
night-and-day  sureness  like  that.  He's  not  illuminated  - 
lucky  dog!' 


MR.  SQUEM  329 

Professor  William  Emory  Browne  had  changed  cars  and 
was  continuing  his  journey.  In  his  lap  lay  a  volume  of 
essays  just  put  forth  by  a  member  of  his  craft,  a  college 
professor.  He  opened  it,  —  it  chanced  at  page  27,  —  and 
his  eye  was  caught  by  the  name  of  his  own  specialty.  He 
read :  — 

*  Philosophy  is  the  science  which  proves  that  we  can 
know  nothing  of  the  soul.     Medicine  is  the  science  which 
tells  that  we  know  nothing  of  the  body.     Political  Econ 
omy  is  that  wrhich  teaches  that  we  know  nothing  of  the  laws 
of  wealth;  and  Theology  the  critical  history  of  those  errors 
from  which  we  deduce  our  ignorance  of  God/ 

*  Confound  it ! '  ejaculated  Professor  Browne,  and  closed 
the  book. 

'Room  for  one  more?'  inquired  a  voice,  and  the  rubber- 
tire  man  slid  into  the  seat. 

'I  just  pulled  off  a  little  thing  out  here/  he  said,  'that 
ought  to  put  a  small  star  in  my  crown.  A  down-and- 
out —  a  tough  looker  —  says  to  me,  "Please,  mister,  give 
me  a  dime.  I'm  hungry."  And  I  says  to  him,  "Get 
out!  What  you  want  is  a  good  drink  — go  get  it,"  and 
slips  him  a  quarter.  Talk  about  gratitude!  To  think 
there  are  men  —  you  know  it  and  I  know  it  and  he  was 
afraid  of  it  —  who'd  have  steered  him  to  a  quick-lunch 
and  put  him  against  soft-boiled  eggs ! ' 

*  "Man's  inhumanity  to  man"  '  — 

'Sure!  Nothing  but  that  ever  makes  me  any  trouble 
about  things.  Tear  ninety,  George/  —  this  to  the  con 
ductor,  —  *  and  burn  this  panetella  some  time.  You  said 
you  were  in  education/  he  went  on.  'Fve  just  blown  my-^ 
self  to  a  Universal  History  —  five  big  volumes,  with  lots  of 
maps  and  pictures  and  flags  of  all  nations  and  hanging 
gardens  of  Babylon  and  such  things.  Gave  down  thirty- 
five  for  it,  and  my  name  is  printed  —  Peter  B.  Squem 


330  MR.   SQUEM 

—  on  the  first  page  of  every  book.  Now/  —  Mr.  Squem 
grew  quite  earnest,  —  *  you'd  say,  wouldn't  you,  that  if 
a  man  could  take  those  books  down,  —  chew  them  up, 
you  understand,  and  take  them  down,  —  he'd  have  an 
education?  Not  the  same,  of  course,  as  normal  school  or 
college,  and  yet  an  education.' 

*  I  think,  if  you  know  what's  good  for  you,  you  will  steer 
clear  of  what  you  call  an  education.  I  think  I  should  stick 
to  rubber  tires,  and  a  few  comfortable  certainties  —  and 
peace.' 

Mr.  Squem  stared.  *  How's  that?'  he  inquired.  *  Edu 
cation  is  your  line,  you  were  saying,  and  yet  you  queer 
your  stuff.  I'd  get  quick  word  from  the  house,  if  I  handled 
Mercury  tires  that  way.' 

'But  you  wouldn't,'  rejoined  Professor  Browne,  'you 
would  n't,  because  tires  mean  something.  Tires  are  your 
life-preserver  —  they  are  shaped  like  life-preservers,  are  n't 
they?' 

'You've  got  me  going,'  said  Mr.  Squem,  'and  no  mis 
take.  I  don't  mind  telling  you  I'd  hoped  to  get  some 
hunch  from  you — on  education.  You  see,  my  clothes 
are  right,  I  always  have  a  room  with  bath,  and  I  get  two 
hundred  a  month  and  fifty  on  the  side.  I  read  the  papers 
— •  and  the  magazine  section  on  Sunday  • —  and  I  got 
through  four  books  last  year.  And  yet  there's  something 
not  there  —  by  Keefer,  not  there !  I'd  give  something  to 
get  it  there  —  to  slide  it  under,  somehow,  and  bring  the 
rest  of  me  up  to  regular  manicuring  and  ice-cream  forks 
and  the  way  my  clothes  fit ! ' 

Mr.  Squem  was  interrupted  in  the  expression  of  this 
craving.  There  was  a  tremendous  jar;  the  car  tore  and 
bumped  with  an  immense  pounding  over  the  ties,  then 
careened  and  sprawled  down  a  short  bank  and  settled  on 
its  side.  People  who  have  been  through  such  an  experi- 


MR.   SQTJEM  331 

ence  will  require  no  description.  To  others  none  can  be 
given.  In  the  bedlam  chaos  and  jumble,  and  chorus  of 
shrieks  and  smashing  glass,  Professor  Browne,  struggling 
up  through  the  bodies  which  had  been  hurled  upon  him, 
was  conscious  of  a  pain  almost  intolerably  sharp  in  his 
leg,  and  then  of  a  sort  of  striped  whirlwind  which  seemed 
to  be  everywhere  at  once,  extricating,  calming,  ordering, 
comforting  —  and  swearing.  It  was  like  a  machine-gun :  — 

'Keep  your  clothes  on,  nothing's  going  to  bite  you  — 
just  a  little  shake-up  —  Yes,  chick,  we'll  find  your  ma  — 
No,  you  don't  climb  over  those  people;  sit  down  or  I'll 
help  you  —  To  hell  with  your  valise,  pick  up  that  child ! 
—  There  go  the  axes;  everybody  quiet  now,  just  where  he 
is  —  You  with  the  side-whiskers  get  back,  back,  hear  me ! 
— •  Now,  children  first,  hand  'em  along  — •  women  next,  so 
— men  last — Why  didn't  you  say  you  was  a  doctor? 
Get  out  there  quick;  some  of  those  people  have  got  broke 
and  need  you ! ' 

Professor  Browne  was  one  of  these  last.  Lifted  by 
Peter  Squem  and  a  very  scared  brakeman,  he  lay  on  two 
Pullman  mattresses  at  the  side  of  the  track,  waiting  for  the 
rabbit-faced  country  doctor  to  reach  him.  He  was  suffer 
ing  very  much, — at  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  never 
really  known  pain  before,  —  but  his  attention  went  to  a 
white-haired  lady  near  by  — -a  slight,  slender  woman,  with 
breeding  written  all  over  her.  She  had  made  her  way 
from  the  drawing-room  of  the  Pullman,  and  leaned  heavily 
upon  her  maid,  in  a  state  approaching  collapse.  Pro 
fessor  Browne  was  impressed  by  her  air  of  distinction  even 
in  the  midst  of  his  pain.  Then  he  saw  a  striped  arm 
supportingly  encircle  her,  and  a  hand  dominated  by  an 
enormous  seal  ring  press  to  her  lips  an  open  bottle  of 
Scotch. 


332  MR.   SQUEM 

'Let  it  trickle  down,  auntie  —  right  down.     It's  just 
what  you  need,'  said  Peter  B.  Squem. 

'  What  did  you  think  of  when  the  car  stopped  rolling? ' 

Professor  Browne,  lying  in  his  bed,  asked  this  question 
of  Mr.  Squem,  sitting  at  its  side.  The  latter  had  got  the 
|  professor  home  to  his  house  and  his  housekeeper  after  the 
|  accident  the  day  before,  had  found  the  best  surgeon  in 
town  and  stood  by  while  he  worked,  had  in  a  dozen  ways 
helped  a  bad  business  to  go  as  well  as  possible,  and  now, 
having  remained  over  night,  was  awaiting  the  hour  of  his 
train. 

'Think  of?     Nothing.    No  time.    I  was  that  cross-eyed 
boy  you've  heard  about  —  the  one  at  the  three-ringed 
circus.     Did  you  see  that  newly-wed  rooster,— I'll  bet  he 
.was  that, —  the  one  with  the  celluloid  collar?     "Good 
bye,  Maude!"  he  yells,  and   then  tries  to  butt  himself 
through  the  roof.     He  would  n't  have  left  one  sound  rib 
;  in  the  car  if  I  had  n't  pinned  him.    No,  I  had  n't  any  time 
to  think.' 

He  produced  and  consulted  a  watch  —  one  that  struck 
the  professor  as  being  almost  too  loud  an  ornament  for  a 
^Christmas  tree.  An  infant's  face  showed  within  as  the 
case  opened. 

'Your  baby?'  inquired  Professor  Browne. 

*  Never.  Not  good  enough.  This  kid  I  found  —  where 
do  you  suppose?  On  a  picture-postal  at  a  news-stand. 
The  picture  was  no  good  —  except  the  kid;  and  I  cut  him 
out,  you  see.  Say,  do  you  know  the  picture  was  painted 
by  a  man  out  in  Montana?  Yes,  sir,  Montana.  They 
had  the  cards  made  over  in  Europe  somewhere,  —  Dagoes, 
likely,  —  and  when  they  put  his  name  on  it,  they  did  n't 
do  a  thing  to  that  word  Montana.  Some  spelling ! ' 

'Why,  what  you  have  there,'  said  the  professor,  taking 


MR.   SQUEM  333 

the  watch  with  interest,  'is  the  Holy  Child  of  Andrea 
Mantegna's  Circumcision,  —  it's  in  the  Uffizi  at  Florence. 
Singularly  good  it  is,  too.  I'm  very  much  wrapped  up  in 
the  question,  raised  in  a  late  book,  of  Mantegna's  influence 
upon  Giovanni  Bellini.  There's  a  rather  fine  point  made 
in  connection  with  another  child  in  this  same  picture  —  a 
larger  one,  pressing  against  his  mother's  knees.' 

Mr.  Squem  was  perfectly  uncomprehending.  'Come 
again,'  he  remarked.  *  No,  you  need  n't,  either,  for  I  don't 
know  anything  about  the  rest  of  the  picture.  I  told  you 
it  was  no  good.  There  was  an  old  party  in  a  funny  bath 
robe  and  with  heavy  Belshazzars,  I  remember  —  but  the 
picture  was  this.9 

He  rose  and  began  to  get  into  his  overcoat. 

*  There's  one  thing  about  this  kid,'  he  said,  in  a  casual 
tone  which  somehow  let  earnestness  through.  *I  know  a 
man,  —  he  travels  out  of  Phillie,  and  he's  some  booze- 
artist  and  other  things  that  go  along,  —  who's  got  one  of 
those  little  "Josephs."  You  know,  those  little  dolls  that 
Catholics  tote  around?  Separate  him  from  it?  Not  on 
your  life.  Why,  he  missed  it  one  night  on  a  sleeper,  and  he 
cussed  and  reared  around,  and  made  the  coon  rout  every 
body  out  till  he  found  it.  It's  luck,  you  see.  Now  this 
kid '  —  Mr.  Squem  was  pulling  on  his  gloves  —  *  is  n't  luck, 
but  he  works  like  luck.  He  talks  to  me,  understand,  and ' 
—  here  a  pause  —  '  he  puts  all  sorts  of  cussedness  on  the 
blink.  You  can't  look  at  him  and  be  an  Indian.  I  was 
making  the  wrong  sort  of  date  in  Trenton  one  day,  and  I 
saw  him  just  in  time  —  sent  the  girl  word  I'd  been  called 
out  of  town.  I  was  figuring  on  the  right  time  to  pinch  a 
man  in  the  door,  —  he'd  done  me  dirty,  —  and  I  saw  him 
again.  Good-night !  I'm  never  so  punk  that  he  does  n't 
ginger  me  —  does  n't  look  good  to  me.  The  management 
is  mixed  up  with  him  —  and  I  hook  up  to  him.  Here's  the 


334  MR.   SQUEM 

taxi.     So  long,  professor.  —    Rats!     I  haven't  done  one 
little  thing.     Good  luck  to  your  game  leg!' 

It  was  Sunday  morning,  and  service  was  under  way  in 
the  Church  of  the  Holy  Faith.  For  the  thousandth  time 
the  Reverend  Allan  Dare  had  dearly-beloved  his  people, 
assembled  to  the  number  of  four  hundred  before  him, 
exhorting  them  in  such  forthright  English  as  cannot  be 
written  nowadays^jaot  to  dissemble  nor  cloak  their  sins 
before  God,  and  to  accompany  him  unto  the  throne  of  the 
heavenly  grace.  He  had  had  a  sick  feeling,  as  he  read  this 
exhortation,  so  full  of  pound,  rhythm,  heart-search,  and 
splendid  good  sense,  to  the  courteous  abstractedness  in  the 
pews. 

*  Heavens!'  he  had  thought,  'once  this  burnt  in!'  He 
had  wanted  to  shriek,  —  or  fire  a  pistol  in  the  air,  —  and 
then  crush  the  meaning  into  his  people;  crush  God  into 
them,  yes,  and  into  himself. 

He  was  four-tenths  sag  that  morning  —  the  Rev.  Allan 
Dare.  In  the  Jubilate,  a  small  choir-boy  —  a  phenomenon 
who  was  paid  a  thousand  a  year,  and  was  responsible  for 
the  presence  of  not  a  few  of  the  four  hundred  —  had  sung 
'Be  sure  ye  that  the  Lord  he  is  God,'  to  the  ravishment  of 
the  congregation  —  not  of  the  rector,  who  stood  looking 
dead  ahead.  The  First  Lesson  had  been  all  about  Jona- 
dab,  the  son  of  Rechab,  and  drinking  no  wine  —  frightful 
ineptness!  What  could  it  mean  to  any  one?  how  help  any 
one?  Here  was  Life,  with  all  its  cruel  tangles,  tighter  and 
more  choking  every  day.  Here  was  Arnold's  darkling 
plain,  and  the  confused  alarms  and  the  ignorant  armies 
clashing  by  night. 

There  came  back  to  Dare  the  creed  he  had  heard  in  the 
smoking  compartment:  *I  think  it  ought  to  be  run,  —  the 
world,  —  even  if  it's  mussed-up  to  the  limit,  and  I  think 


MR.   SQUEM  335 

it's  up  to  us  to  keep  it  running.  I  think  there's  a  manager 
of  it  all  in  the  central  office  — a  manager,  understand, 
though  he  never  seems  to  show  up  around  the  works,  and 
certainly  does  seem  to  have  some  of  the  darnedest  ways/ 
*  O  God ! '  breathed  Allan  Dare,  *  there  are  so  many  things 

—  so  many  things ! ' 

It  was  the  same  Sunday.  ...  Professor  William  Emory 
Browne  was  for  the  first  time  on  crutches,  and  stood  sup 
ported  by  them  at  his  window.  ' 

'Back  again/  he  ruminated.  'I  can  probably  drive  to 
my  classes  in  another  week.  Then  the  same  old  grind, 
showing  ingenuous  youth  — •  who  fortunately  will  not  see  it 

—  how  "the  search  hath  taught  me  that  the  search  is 
vain."     Ho,  hum!     How  very  kind,  that  Mr.  Squem,— 
he  did  so  much  for  me,  —  and  how  very  funny!     I  should 
like  to  produce  him  at  the  seminar  — >ith  his  just-right 
clothes,  his  dream  of  culture  via  his  Universal.  History,  his 
approach  to  reality  through  a  picture  postal-card! ' 

He  turned  on  himself  almost  savagely.  Then,  — 
4  What  the  devil  are  you  patronizing  him  for?  Don't 
you  see  that  he  is  hooked  to  something  and  you  are  not, 
that  he  is  warm  and  you  are  freezing,  that  he  is  part  of  the 
wave,  —  the  wave,  man,  —  and  that  you  are  just  a  miser 
able,  tossing  clot? ' 

It  was  the  same  Sunday.  Mr.  Squem  sat  in  his  room  — 
extremely  dennish,  smitingly  red  as  to  walls,  oppressive 
with  plush  upholstery.  A  huge  deerhead,  jutting  from 
over  the  mantel,  divided  honors  with  a  highly-colored  Sep 
tember  Morn,  affrontingly  framed.  On  a  shelf  stood  a 
small  bottle.  It  contained  a  finger  of  Mr.  Squem,  ampu 
tated  years  before,  in  alcohol. 

On  the  knees  of  the  owner  of  the  room  was  Volume  One 


336  MR.   SQUEM 

of  the  Universal  History  —  Number  32,  so  red-ink  figures 
affirmed,  of  a  limited  edition  of  five  hundred  sets.  Mr. 
Squem's  name  was  displayed,  in  very  large  Old  English, 
on  the  fly-leaf,  and  above  was  an  empty  oval  wherein  his 
portrait  might  be  placed. 

'No  use/  soliloquized  the  owner  of  this  treasure,  'no 
use.  If  I  could  chew  it  up  and  get  it  down,  —  or  two  of  it, 
—  that  would  n't  slide  under  the  thing  that  is  n't  there. 
Nothing  will  ever  put  me  in  the  class  of  Professor  Browne 
or  that  preacher  on  the  car,  or  bring  the  rest  of  me  up  to 
my  clothes.' 

He  rose  and  stretched. 

*  Maybe,'  he  said,  addressing  a  huge  chocolate-colored 
bust  of  an  Indian  lady,  *  maybe  I  can  catch  up  to  those 
fellows  some  time  —  but  not  here.  Noon,  I  bet,'  —  look 
ing  at  his  watch,  —  •  'and  it  is  to  eat.' 

He  contemplated  the  Mantegna  baby. 

'So  long,'  he  said,  'you're  running  things,'  and  snapped 
his  watch. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND   INTERPRETATIVE 
NOTES 


BIOGRAPHICAL    AND    INTERPRETATIVE 
NOTES 

THE    PRELIMINARIES 

CORNELIA  A.  P.  COMER,  accomplished  critic,  essayist,  and 
writer  of  short  stories,  was  educated  at  Vassar,  and  afterwards 
engaged  in  journalistic  work  in  the  Middle  West  and  California. 
She  now  lives  in  Seattle. 

The  plot  of  The  Preliminaries  might  readily  be  told  in  a  single 
paragraph.  Its  significance  lies  in  its  lucid  and  austere  psy 
chology.  The  young  Mr.  Oliver  Pickersgill  appears  in  four 
distinct  situations;  and  as  we  watch  him  in  company  with  the  four 
dominating  and  diverse  personalities  in  turn,  we  are  engrossed 
in  the  swift  and  poignant  play  of  his  feelings  —  feelings  which 
finally  deepen  into  a  sincere  and  settled  consciousness  of  attained 
truth  and  a  confident  loyalty  to  an  imprisoned  convict.  The 
verisimilitude  of  both  situation  and  conversation  is  complete;  and 
in  the  process  there  is  no  exhaustion  of  emotional  values.  Henry 
James  would  not  have  treated  the  situations  with  more  clarity. 

The  author's  further  treatment  of  the  problems  connected 
with  marriage  is  seen  in  two  other  noteworthy  Atlantic  stories  — 
The  Kinzer  Portraits  and  Tlie  Long  Inheritance. 


BUTTERCUP-NIGHT 

JOHN  GALSWORTHY,  an  English  'novelist  of  much  distinction, 
and  a  playwright  who  has  proved  that  the  possession  of  ideas  is 
not  incompatible  with  popular  success.  Endowed  with  an  ex 
quisite  sense  of  pity,  he  has  put  that  sentiment  to  many  chival 
rous  uses,  and  since  the  war  he  has  written  in  the  public  service 
on  behalf  of  various  patriotic  and  humanitarian  objects/  Thus 
Mr.  Galsworthy  was  described  in  the  London  Gazette  as  a  recip 
ient  of  the  honor  of  knighthood  in  the  list  of  New  Year  (1918) 
Honors,  his  declination  not  having  been  received  in  time  to 
forestall  the  publication. 


340  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

Buttercup-Night  is  hardly  a  story  at  all.  In  company  with  Mr. 
Galsworthy  we  live  out  the  quiet  but  impressive  experience  of  a 
single  evening,  night,  and  morning,  all  the  while  breathing  the 
atmosphere  of  a  rare  June  beauty  that  completely  wins  us  to 
its  aesthetic  favor  and  repose.  The  incident  of  the  sick  horse, 
so  gently  cared  for  by  the  faithful  keeper,  secures  our  sympa 
thy  but  does  not  draw  us  away  from  the  more  insistent  wooing 
of  the  charms  of  the  buttercup-night  and  the  morning  radiance 
of  a  suddenly  awakened  glow  of  blooming  yellow.  The  common 
place  writer  would  use  the  scene  for  romantic  effect;  Gals 
worthy  enhances  the  beauty  of  the  setting  by  a  homely  but  sincere 
realism.  The  significant  merits  of  the  style  are  its  purity,  its  re 
straint,  and  its  complete  adaptability  to  the  hoveringly  quiescent 
mood. 

HEPATICAS 

ANNE  DOUGLAS  SEDGWICK  (Madame  Basil  de  Selincourt)  is  of 
American  birth,  but  has  lived  in  England  since  her  childhood. 
For  many  years  she  has  found  an  admiring  audience  as  a  writer 
of  novels  and  short  stories.  In  1908  she  was  married  to  M.  de 
Selincourt. 

The  title  of  the  story  hints  at  a  reliance  upon  mere  setting. 
And  the  hepatica  bed,  with  all  that  its  associations  signify,  cer 
tainly  makes  its  generous  atmospheric  contribution  to  the  charm 
of  the  narrative.  But  as  domestic  entanglements  begin  to  ensue, 
our  interest  in  the  flowers  is  soon  shifted  to  plot  and  theme.  Our 
sustained  sympathy  rests  with  the  mother  —  the  mother  who 
has  created  in  her  home  an  atmosphere  of  the  truest  and  most 
sensibly  refined  culture.  The  promising  son,  sharing  this  at 
mosphere  and  even  enriching  it,  yields  while  at  Aldershot  before 
the  war  to  the  superficial  charm  of  a  chorus  girl,  and  marries  her. 
Her  loud  and  garish  presence  in  the  home  of  quiet  beauty  and 
repose  provides  an  interesting  but  tragic  study  in  contrast,  and 
makes  us  continually  more  anxious  as  we  watch  its  influence  upon 
the  mother,  yearning  pityingly  for  her  absent  son,  yet  plaintively 
relieved  when  news  comes  that  he  has  been  killed  in  the  war. 
Death  has  released  him  from  the  grim  necessity  of  living  his  mis- 
mated  life  and  caring  for  the  child  born  of  parents  of  such  diver 
gent  types.  The  supreme  merit  of  the  mother's  character  lies  in 
her  willing  acceptance  of  the  burdening  problem.  The  strength 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  341 

of  the  story,  as  we  view  it  in  its  entirety,  rests  in  a  skillful  merging 
of  effects  which  allows  final  emphasis  upon  character  portrayal  and 
thematic  situation. 


POSSESSING    PRUDENCE 

AMY  WENTWORTH  STONE  is  a  resident  of  Boston,  who  combines 
a  pleasant  sense  of  the  ludicrous  with  a  rare  understanding  of 
the  spirit  of  childhood. 

This  miniature  sketch  of  Amy  Wentworth  Stone's  is  admirably 
handled,  and  sparkles  with  the  best  and  kindliest  humor  —  a 
humor  that  is  in  no  sense  spoiled  by  the  sins  that  rest  so  lightly 
upon  the  imaginative  soul  of  little  Prudence  Jane.  Her  sins 
hark  quickly  back  to  the  childhood  periods  of  each  reader  who 
sympathetically  remembers  the  world  of  fancy  which  conflicted  so 
loudly  with  dull  realism.  The  charm  of  this  humorous  tracery 
will  invite  a  rereading  of  Miss  Stone's  similar  triumph  in  Capi 
tal  Punishments,  published  in  the  Atlantic  for  November,  1913. 


THE    GLORY-BOX 

ELIZABETH  ASHE  is  the  pen  name  of  Georgiana  Pentlarge,  a 
young  and  promising  story-writer  living  in  Boston. 

The  Glory -Box  is  an  unforgettable  story.  Its  accuracy  in  the 
matter  of  minor  household  details  and  commonplace  neighbor- 
liness  creates  an  atmosphere  of  intimate  realism  which  readily 
wins  our  sympathetic  credence  in  situation  and  event.  We  grow 
easily  familiar  with  the  three  or  four  characters  who  are  intro 
duced,  and  then  we  discover  our  interest  centering  in  two  of 
these  —  Eunice,  the  sweetheart,  and  Stephen,  the  lover  —  as,  in 
their  separated  lives,  each  in  fancy  penetrates  the  daily  routine 
and  comes  fondly  to  rest  in  thoughts  and  plans  of  marriage.  The 
story  interest  is  enhanced  by  the  contrast  of  their  daily  routine. 
Eunice's  time  is  spent  in  teaching,  relieved  by  friendly  village  com 
panionship;  Stephen's  in  the  arduous  work  of  the  Columbia  Law 
School,  relieved  by  glimpses  of  fashionable  life  in  Washington 
Square.  All  this  routine  and  hope  and  relaxation  end  in  the  trag 
edy  that  the  earlier  realism  of  the  story  grimly  accentuates  and 
intensifies.  The  art  of  the  story  lies  in  the  author's  quiet  control 
of  situations  which  might  so  easily,  in  the  hands  of  a  lesser  crafts 
man,  run  a  riotous  course  in  the  field  of  pseudo-sentiment. 


342  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

THE    SPIRIT    OF   THE    HERD 

DALLAS  LORE  SHARP,  well  known  as  a  keen  observer  both  of 
nature  and  of  human  nature,  is  Professor  of  English  at  Boston 
University. 

I  have  asked  permission  to  extract  this  episode  from  a  longer 
article.  Professor  Sharp  was  as  generous  in  this  as  he  has  been 
helpful  in  other  matters  relating  to  selections  which  make  up  this 
volume  of  narratives. 

The  paragraphs  which  precede  the  present  beginning  are 
expository  in  nature,  and  while  they  bear  interestingly  upon  the 
incident,  they  are  not  a  necessary  part  of  the  narrative.  The 
selection  breathes  the  very  atmosphere  of  highly  hazardous  ad 
venture;  and  even  though  the  writer  quickly  generates  in  us  a 
feeling  of  confidence  in  the  superior  powers  of  Ranchman  Wade 
and  Peroxide  Jim,  we  nevertheless  restlessly  live  through  the 
moments  of  the  wild  stampede  as  it  makes  its  mad  and  frightened 
way  along  the  perilous  edge  of  the  rim-rock. 


IN    THE    PASHA'S    GARDEN 

H.  G.  DWIGHT  is  the  son  of  an  American  missionary  to  the 
Near  East,  and  lived  for  many  years  in  Constantinople.  Being 
compelled  to  leave  Turkey  after  her  entrance  into  the  war,  he  re 
turned  to  the  United  States  and  is  now  in  the  government  service. 

Mr.  D wight  in  this  Stamboul  romance  has  invested  his  scenes 
with  the  languorous  and  mystical  spirit  of  the  orientalism  in 
which  his  characters  so  naturally  move.  We  are  here  far  away 
from  the  O.  Henry  type  of  story,  with  its  startling  cleverness, 
crisp  humor,  and  ingenious  surprise.  We  share  instead  the  leisure 
and  luxury  of  this  eastern  way  of  living  —  felt  all  the  more  strong 
ly  because  of  the  presence  of  the  French  wife  whose  independent 
customs  and  bearing  offend  the  servants  of  the  easy-going  Pasha. 
The  interest,  however,  is  not  confined  to  the  atmosphere.  We 
are  soon  breathing  the  mystery  of  the  kiosque  —  a  mystery  which 
the  author  never  fully  solves,  but  leaves  silently  merged  in  the 
intangible  charm  of  the  pervading  orientalism. 

LITTLE    SELVES 

MARY  LERNER,  a  story-writer  of  Cambridge,  Massachusetts, 
first  won  attention  by  the  publication  of  'Little  Selves'  in  the 
Atlantic  Monthly. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  343 

I  have  included  this  selection  because  it  reveals  so  delicately 
and  so  immediately  that  quality  which  we  may  somewhat  para 
doxically  call  romantic  realism.  The  scenes  which  Miss  Lerner's 
old  Irish  woman  so  intimately  recalls  are  all  peopled  by  the  real 
creatures  of  a  remembered  past,  principally  her  little  selves  as 
they  lived  through  their  childish  joys  and  sorrows  and  swiftly 
sequent  perplexities.  But  each  of  these  experiences,  so  inti 
mately  and  realistically  portrayed,  is  seen  through  memories 
tinged  with  the  charm  of  a  happy  Celtic  romance. 


THE    FAILURE 

CHARLES  CALDWELL  DOBIE  is  a  young  writer  living  in  San 
Francisco. 

Mr.  Dobie  has  in  this  story  shown  himself  more  than  a  mere 
realist.  The  realistic  details  of  John  Scidmore's  home,  the  early- 
morning  routine  of  the  insurance  office,  the  evening  splendor  of 
Julia  Norris's  hotel  apartments,  —  all  are  graphically  re-created. 
But  the  central  idea  is  an  ethical  one  —  John  Scidmore's  waver 
ing  action  in  the  midst  of  a  business  situation  where  a  frank  admis 
sion  of  gross  neglect  was  morally  imperative.  His  immediate 
failure  to  meet  the  situation  is  grimly  contrasted  with  his  wife's 
expressed  faith  in  his  honesty.  The  story  presents  a  graphic 
instance  of  a  righteous  act  silently  directed  by  a  strongly  in 
fluencing  personality.  It  closes  with  this  particular  problem 
solved;  but  we  end  the  reading  with  many  interesting  and  con 
flicting  surmises  concerning  the  future  domestic  life  in  the  Scid- 
more  home. 


BUSINESS    IS    BUSINESS 

HENKY  SEIDEL  CANBY,  essayist  and  critic  and  occasional 
writer  of  stories,  is  a  Professor  of  English  at  the  Sheffield  Scientific 
School  at  Yale  University.  His  books  include  several  volumes 
on  the  short  story. 

The  commercial  theme  has  been  freely  exploited  by  the  popular 
magazine  writers.  When  it  is  written  merely  for  the  sake  of 
getting  in  line  with  a  popular  trend,  it  is  likely  to  be  empty  and 
blusterous.  In  Mr.  Canby's  story  we  are,  of  course,  interested 
in  the  business  atmosphere;  but  we  are  more  deeply  interested  in 


344  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

the  portrayal  of  character.  Cargan  is  most  fully  drawn,  and  we 
watch  him  with  increasing  keenness  as  we  see  him  dominated  by 
the  various  moods  which  the  other  personalities  and  the  shifting 
incidents  and  the  changing  environment  engender.  The  skill 
shown  in  the  rapid  but  graphic  sketching  of  Mrs.  Cargan  and  Mrs. 
Waldron  is  equally  engaging.  The  story  is  perfect  in  its  mastery 
of  narrative  technique. 


NOTHING 

ZEPHINE  HUMPHREY  (Mrs.  Fahnestock),  long  a  contributor 
of  essays  and  stories  to  the  Atlantic,  is  the  author  of  a  novel 
entitled  Grail-Fire. 

In  this  and  other  contributions  to  the  Atlantic  Miss  Humphrey 
has  shown  an  acute  sensitiveness  to  atmosphere  and  personality. 
We  are  here  charmingly  led  into  an  intimate  understanding  of  the 
surroundings  and  character  of  the  little  blind  woman  who  lives 
her  lonely  life  in  the  simple  cottage  where,  in  preparation  for  the 
imminent  affliction,  she  had  long  ago  learned  to  do  her  work  in 
the  silent  dark.  The  story  has  almost  no  plot  interest,  for  we 
trace  no  significant  movement  of  events — except  the  few  which 
are  fragmentarily  imparted  in  confidential  retrospect.  The  quiet 
ness  of  the  style  is  in  thorough  keeping  with  the  secured  tone — 
one  of  those  happy  revelations  so  difficult  to  accomplish,  yet 
when  once  accomplished  suggesting,  by  its  inevitable  touch,  the 
easy  process  of  mastership. 


A    MOTH    OF    PEACE 

MRS.  KATHARINE  FULLERTON  GEROULD,  distinguished  as  a 
writer  of  essays  and  stories  and  novels,  is  the  wife  of  Gordon 
Hall  Gerould,  Professor  at  Princeton. 

Aside  from  the  unusually  strong  and  flowing  style  here  so 
impressively  revealed,  we  have  a  story  marked  by  a  sympathetic 
penetration  into  the  atmosphere  of  Andecy  —  an  atmosphere, 
when  first  felt,  richly  laden  with  the  languor  of  a  lonely  and 
pervading  provincial  peace.  This  peace  is  suddenly  broken  by 
the  rumors  and  processes  of  war,  and  we  feel  the  dread  of  the 
impending  German  attack  and  the  personal  solicitude  of  Miss 
Stanley,  the  American  heroine  lovingly  anxious  for  the  fate  of  her 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  345 

English  fiance.  Nearer  and  nearer  comes  the  threatened  danger. 
Finally  the  heroine  goes  out  to  meet  the  troop  of  enemy  soldiers 
without  the  gates  —  whether  to  meet  a  tragic  end,  the  author 
does  not  say. 

There  is  little  dialogue  and  little  haste  in  the  action.  The 
narrative  is  continuously  guided  by  the  controlling  spirit  of 
Miss  Stanley,  who  grimly  triumphs  over  the  fear  and  dread  of 
the  perilous  situation.  Her  body  may  have  suffered  defeat;  her 
soul  is  splendidly  victorious.  The  author's  skill  at  the  end  is 
finely  revealed  in  the  graphic  portrayal  of  the  psychology  of  the 
situation. 


IN    NO    STRANGE    LAND 

KATHARINE  BUTLER,  a  young  writer  of  few  and  distinctive 
stories,  lives  at  Danvers,  Massachusetts. 

The  significant  merit  of  this  story  is  the  mystical  creation  of  a 
man's  experience  with  death.  The  things  of  earth  and  heaven 
become  perplexingly  intermingled.  Realism  becomes  strongly 
blended  with  the  thoughts  that  move  in  weird  circles  on  the 
tenuous  wings  of  wanton  fancy,  and  we  live  a  puzzled  moment 
as  we  try  to  visualize  the  man's  experiences  in  his  new  realm  of 
consciousness  with  its  'incredible  freedom  and  joy.'  The  whole 
narrative  is  wrought  in  the  delicate  tracery  of  one  whose  tempera 
ment  is  obviously  the  temperament  of  a  poet. 


LITTLE    BROTHER 

MADELEINE  Z.  DOTY,  of  New  York,  learned  the  true  story  of 
'Little  Brother'  when  at  The  Hague,  in  the  summer  of  1915,  as  a 
delegate  to  the  Woman's  International  Congress.  Miss  Doty 
is  a  lawyer  by  profession;  by  practice,,  a  writer,  investigator, 
and  traveler. 

With  terrible  concreteness  Little  Brother  weights  our  soul-sense 
with  the  horror  and  tragedy  of  war.  The  story  is  told  with  a 
bared  realism  which  the  poignancy  of  the  occasion  freely  extenu 
ates.  In  short  crisp  sentences  the  opening  scene  is  exposed. 
There  follow  in  dizzy  succession  and  in  the  same  quick-breathing 
style  the  little  tragic  ordeals  that  fill  the  story  with  a  terrible 
passion.  It  penetrates  the  very  essence  of  our  being  and  starkly 


346  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

confronts  us  with  the  bleak  mystery  of  the  existing  condition  of 
world-carnage  —  a  carnage  that  wantonly  wreaks  its  unselected 
vengeance  on  little  sufferers  unskilled  and  unschooled  in  squaring 
their  strength  to  ill-proportioned  trials. 


WHAT    ROAD    GOETII    HE? 

'F.  J.  LOURIET'  is  a  pseudonym  representing  the  dual  author 
ship  of  Captain  and  Mrs.  F.  J.  Green,  long  of  Australia  and  now 
of  Honolulu. 

By  the  free  but  not  too  lavish  use  of  sea  terms  and  common 
sailor  talk,  we  are  brought  into  immediate  and  intimate  knowl 
edge  of  the  affairs  of  a  ship  floundering  in  a  storm.  Through 
graphic  sensory  images,  with  their  vivid  and  varied  appeals,  the 
whole  perilous  situation  is  wonderfully  intensified.  Seldom  in 
deed  are  details  better  massed  to  secure  an  intended  effect.  But 
the  interest  later  comes  to  centre  in  the  great  theme  of  sacrifice 
—  a  sacrifice  all  the  more  significant  because  it  is  performed 
with  such  absolute  spontaneity.  The  story  is  a  noteworthy  ex 
ample  of  strong  effect  secured  with  great  economy  of  time  and 
material. 


THE    CLEARER    SIGHT 

ERNEST  STARR,  a  writer  of  occasional  stories,  lives  in  North 
Carolina. 

The  most  interesting  element  in  Mr.  Ernest  Starr's  narrative 
is  the  dramatic  conflict  of  emotions.  Placed  first  in  the  gnomish 
atmosphere  of  a  chemical  laboratory,  the  tone  soon  changes  from 
scientific  to  ethical  —  each  interest  being  intensified  and  directed 
by  the  deep  emotion  of  romantic  love.  A  serious  accident  in  the 
laboratory  creates  the  crisis;  it  reveals  to  Noakes,  the  young 
scientist,  the  inexcusable  baseness  in  his  character  —  a  baseness 
which  allowed  him  to  act  with  direct  disloyalty  to  his  employer 
and  with  somewhat  obvious  disloyalty  to  the  ideals  cherished  by 
the  girl  whom  he  loved.  The  situation  is  finally  relieved  by  his 
confessions  and  by  the  physician's  hope  that  the  young  scientist's 
physical  blindness  is  not  necessarily  permanent. 

The  author  shows  unusual  skill  in  dialogue,  in  analysis,  and  in 
the  handling  of  both  conventional  and  dramatic  situations. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  347 

THE    GARDEN    OF    MEMORIES 

C.  A.  MERCER  is  an  American  author  who  has,  unfortunately, 
been  altogether  silent  of  late  years. 

In  this  story  the  traditions  and  influence  of  Hawthorne  are 
picturesquely  revived.  The  experience  is  one  which  is  a  bit 
fragile  and  tenuous,  but  to  readers  who  reproduce  in  their  fancy 
the  more  delicate  picturings  of  their  childhood,  who  delight  in 
the  re-creation  of  mood,  who  frequently  re-live  their  childhood 
sentiments  —  to  all  such  will  come  a  sense  of  pleasure  in  the  con 
templation  of  the  tracery  here  so  artistically  etched. 


THE   CLEAREST    VOICE 

MARGARET  SHERWOOD,  a  singularly  sincere  and  graceful 
writer,  is  Professor  of  English  Literature  at  Wellesley  College. 

The  clear  voice  which  here  speaks  under  Miss  Sherwood's 
guidance  is  the  voice  of  the  absent.  And,  individually,  as  we 
read  the  story,  we  listen  sympathetically  to  the  separate  messages 
of  those  voices  which  have  entered  sympathetically  into  our  past 
experiences  and  wisely  guided  or  wisely  thwarted  our  separate 
deeds. 

A  Harvard  graduate  who  had  taken  Professor  Charles  Eliot 
Norton's  course  in  fine  arts  was  years  afterward  selecting  a  cra 
vat  pin  in  a  jeweler's  shop  in  Paris.  As  he  finally  decided  upon 
one  of  plain,  simple,  and  silently  impressive  design,  he  said,  *I 
think  Professor  Norton  would  have  chosen  this.'  In  decisions 
minor  and  in  decisions  major,  we  are  almost  invariably  influenced 
by  the  unconscious  thought  of  those  whose  counsel  we  value. 
This  significant  truth  Miss  Sherwood  has  impressively  revealed 
in  The  Clearest  Voice. 


THE    MARBLE    CHILD 

E.  NESBIT  (Mrs.  Hubert  Bland)  is  an  English  writer  who  for 
many  years  has  enjoyed  widespread  and  deserved  popularity  as 
a  writer  of  children's  books. 

*  The  world  where  children  live  is  so  full  of  amazing  and  incred 
ible-looking  things  that  turn  out  to  be  quite  real.'  This  sentence 
from  the  story  supplies  us  with  the  theme  the  wording  of  the 
bald  analyst  requires,  For  him  who  simply  reads  for  the  mere 


348  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

narrative,  no  such  analyzing  is  really  necessary — provided  there 
still  linger  with  him  the  manifold  fancies  that  peopled  his  child 
hood.  Of  course  Ernest  was  an  extraordinary  child  —  like 
Shelley  or  William  Blake,  it  may  be.  Just  such  a  child  as  Haw 
thorne  would  adore.  To  appreciate  the  story  in  all  its  fineness, 
we  must  ourselves  have  something  of  that  abnormality.  Else 
we  shall  be  as  impervious  as  the  crinolined  aunts,  and  as  unsym 
pathetic  toward  Ernest's  experience  as  are  some  readers  to  Haw 
thorne's  fanciful  Snow  Image. 


THE    ONE    LEFT 

E.  V.  LUCAS  is  an  English  essayist,  a  lover  and  biographer  of 
Lamb,  known  for  many  delicate  and  appreciative  essays,  and 
for  books  of  travel  in  familiar  places.  It  is  semi-occasionally 
only  that  Mr.  Lucas  addresses  himself  to  fiction. 

This  admirably  written  story  —  so  brief  as  to  be  little  more 
than  a  sketch  —  is  rich  in  emotional  values  which  are  safely  held 
within  the  bonds  of  restraint.  Scientifically,  I  am  told  there  is 
nothing  wrong  in  the  description  of  the  ingenious  device  which 
provides  the  means  for  the  expression  of  the  emotion,  though 
readers  unfamiliar  with  such  devices  may  question  the  veri 
similitude  of  the  action.  It  is  but  one  instance  among  thousands 
which  provide  modern  literature  with  a  broadened  range  within 
the  field  of  realism. 


THE    LEGACY    OF    RICHARD    HUGHES 
MARGARET  LYNN,  member  of  the  English  Department  of  the 
State  University  of  Kansas,  at  Lawrence,  is  best  known  for  her 
sympathetic  appreciation  of  prairie  life. 

This  story  is  a  tragedy  —  the  tragedy  of  a  wife's  failure  to 
understand  the  finer  side  of  her  husband's  nature.  She  learns  her 
misjudgment  all  too  late  —  when  the  husband  lies  dead.  The 
emotional  values  are  the  greater  because  the  reader  inevitably 
contemplates  the  long  years  they  lived  together  in  their  isolation. 
The  psychology  of  the  situation  is  portrayed  w'th  remarkable 
clarity.  The  method  is  very  different  from  the  method  of  such 
writers  as  de  Maupassant.  De  Maupassant's  analysis  and  dis 
secting  is  usually  done  with  cold  and  relentless  indifference;  Miss 
Lynn's  processes  are  here  carried  out  determinedly,  but  with  full 
and  lingering  sympathy. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  349 

OF    WATER    AND    THE    SPIRIT 

MARGARET  P.  MONTAGUE,  living  among  the  West  Virginia 
mountains,  has  written  many  successful  stories  of  the  Hill 
people  whom  she  knows  so  well. 

The  chain  of  incidents  narrated  by  the  simple-hearted  Virginia 
dressmaker  is  of  absorbing  interest,  and  seems  to  be  the  real 
experiences  of  one  who  had  actually  endured  the  tragedy  of  hav 
ing  lived  in  the  horror  of  the  aftermath  of  battle.  But  even  more 
interesting  than  these  scenes  of  pitiful  suffering  is  the  effect  pro 
duced  upon  the  woman  who  endures  it  all.  Her  whole  attitude 
toward  life  was  changed.  What  matters  it  now  that  her  father 
was  not  an  aristocratic  Virginian ?  What  if  she  were  a  poor  dress 
maker  at  the  little  village  of  Johnson's  Falls?  What  though  she 
was  not  elected  a  member  of  the  Laurel  Literary  Society?  She 
had  been  face  to  face  with  war  and  death  and  Hell  and  God. 
The  little  things  of  life  had  unconsciously  sunk  away  and  the 
great  enduring  themes  had  boldly  emerged  to  re-create  her  spirit 
ual  self. 


MR.    SQUEM 

REVEREND  ARTHUR  RUSSELL  TAYLOR,  Rector  of  the  Episcopal 
Church  at  York,  Pennsylvania,  whose  career  as  a  writer  of 
fiction  opened  so  auspiciously  with  'Mr.  Squem'  and  a  few 
companion  stories,  died  very  suddenly  early  in  January,  1918. 

Here  the  central  interest  is  in  character.  In  creating  such  a 
personage  as  Mr.  Squem,  the  writer  of  this  story  has  boldly  pene 
trated  the  veneer  of  culture  and  shown  us  that  the  character 
elements  which  are  of  enduring  worth  may  be  far  aloof  from  any 
knowledge  of  art  or  religion  or  philosophy,  or  any  form  of  polite 
learning. 

It  is  interesting  to  note  the  part  which  the  railroad  wreck  plays 
in  this  story.  While  there  is  enough  in  the  situation  to  have 
made  the  wreck  a  point  of  central  objective  interest,  it  is  utilized 
here  simply  as  the  background  for  the  display  of  Mr.  Squem  — 
genial,  direct,  efficient,  ingenuous,  dominating,  interestingly 
crude. 

In  the  February,  1918,  Atlantic  Mr.  Squem  is  equally  interest 
ing  in  a  different  environment. 


350  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

Soon  after  the  death  of  Reverend  Arthur  Russell  Taylor,  Bis 
hop  James  Henry  Darlington  sent  to  the  Atlantic  office  an  inter 
esting  appreciation  of  Dr.  Taylor's  work  and  character.  From 
Bishop  Darlington  we  learn  that  Dr.  Taylor  'had  for  years  been 
suffering  from  a  tumor  on  the  brain  which  had  totally  destroyed 
the  sight  of  one  eye  and  which  by  its  pressure  caused  him  con 
stant  pain,  sleepless  nights,  and  the  gradual  failing  of  the  other 
eye.  Like  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  he  was  cheerful  and  bright 
ened  the  lives  of  others  until  the  very  last,  and  almost  his  final 
writings  were  sent  to  The  Atlantic. .' 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 
LOAN  DEPT. 


-x^ir^    I 


LD  2lA-50m-9  '58 


General  Library 
University  of  California 

Berkeley 


OGo 


